Fragmentation
by Kickaha
Summary: Know your friends, for your enemies will know themselves. Star Lord Ian Cameron and his Star League have made an enemy that will return to haunt ALL sides in the Succession Wars.
1. Chapter 1

The poker game with McFinney had ended, and Cranston Snord found himself the owner of a _Union_ dropship, five fighters, and five battlemechs. But only one of the fighters was functional, and three of the 'mechs were little more than wreckage. He'd spent the last of his cash sending away most of the creditors that he'd inherited along with McFinney's machines, but it wasn't enough. McFinney had owed huge amounts to House Marik, and Janos was calling in those debts.

Janos was calling in all such debts, trying to use them to accumulate expendable mechwarriors to defend against the pressures the Davions were applying, and he had no qualms about reducing mercenary units to little more than House units in all but name. Snord had heard it called the "Company Store" syndrome, and with his interest in history, he was one of the few who knew where the term had come from. And the units Janos was collecting were units that he'd then expend freely, keeping his more loyal Free Worlder mechwarriors to protect his back.

Though Snord could understand that - Mariks weren't quite as bad as the Liao family when it came to sharp knives and unprotected backs, but they were bad enough.

Any surviving merc units would then be not-so-gently pressured into accepting a Marik collar around their necks, with Janos holding their financial leash. That wasn't acceptable. Not to Snord, and not to Jamie Wolf.

He'd sent out messages for spare parts, making certain to obscure the sources as Colonel Wolf had ordered, and the first of the Dispossessed techs and mechwarriors would show up tomorrow morning. With a little luck on his side, he should be able to get the _Union_ into a decent state of repair.

Three of the fighters would have to be scrapped to repair the other two. As for the 'mechs, one would have to be sold for operational cash after it was repaired. That would give him two fighters, three mechs and a dropship. Not exactly a force that would have the Inner Sphere quaking in its boots (though a few Periphery worlds might shudder slightly), but it was a start.

~*~

"You are Cranston Snord, owner and leaders of Snord's Irregulars and current holder of the instruments of debt previously belonging to one Melvin McFinney?"

Snord looked up tiredly. "I am. And you're another of his creditors, I take it?"

"No, Captain Snord. I am Jared Broker, and I have a deal for you."

Cranston felt a bit more interest, and some amusement at what was obviously as false a name as his own. "And what would this deal be, Mr. Broker? Remembering, of course, that I'm still busy repairing my dropship as well as my 'mechs."

"Ten percent of your debt to House Marik, paid immediately. With the possibility of paying it in full, without any combat missions on your part."

Cranston smiled. "And what would I have to do? Re-found the Star League? Search for the missing heirs to House Cameron? Wait, I know! You want me to find General Kerensky." He burst out laughing.

The gray-haired man shook his head. "No, Captain Snord. I want you to do something much harder than that. I want two things. An oath from you, and something else that you'll learn of after you swear that oath."

Quiet alarms went off in Cranston's head. "Tell me what the oath might be, and I'll tell you if I'm willing to swear it, Mr. Broker."

"Simply this. I want a second meeting with you. I will give you certain information, information that might cause you to feel the urge to attack and restrain me, Captain Snord. The oath I want from you is that you will do no such thing. You are free to take whatever action against me - once I leave the meeting. Not before. If you wish to kill me to keep certain secrets, you will wait until after I've left. In return for that oath, after it is given but before the meeting takes place, I will pay ten percent of your debt to House Marik. If, after the meeting, you are still willing to listen to me, I'll pay another ten percent of that debt in return for your escorting me to another meeting, an escort I believe you'll be quite interested in carrying out."

The alarms inside his head grew shriller. "And why would I be wanting to kill you, Mr. Broker?"

Broker smiled. "If I told you why you'd want to kill me, you might try to kill me right here on the spot, Captain Snord. And while death can be such a little thing, dying would certainly interfere with being able to carry out my duties. I'm quite certain that a man like yourself can understand duty."

"How do I know I'm not walking into an ambush, Mr. Broker?"

The gray man smiled again. "The same way I know that I won't be walking into your ambush, Captain Snord. Like myself, you'll have to take a chance."

~*~

Cranston had checked and double-checked. Whoever Mr. Broker was, and whomever he was fronting for, he wasn't lying about the cash. Ten percent of his total debt to House Marik had been placed in escrow with Comstar. All he was required to do was submit a statement from Mr. Broker that the meeting had taken place, and the escrow agency would authorize immediate release of the funds to the Mariks.

It was made even more attractive by the fact that Broker had paid that extra amount to have the escrow payment insured by Comstar. If Janos and his flunkies tried to claim non-payment and still seize his assets, Comstar would, albeit with some reluctance, be required to blacklist Janos. Comstar's reputation would be on the line, and through them, House Marik's.

A pleasant thought, that.

Snord made up his mind. While he was bound by oaths to himself (and in that most secret of corners in his mind, to the Clans), there was nothing he could think of that would prevent him from making an oath to give a man an honest head start. It really wasn't that much different from _hegira_. He could live with that.

He hoped.

~*~

Bob's Bar wasn't the cleanest bar on Crossing, nor did it have the widest selection of liquor, the best food, or the most melodious music. But it did have something that many mercs valued highly.

Its owner paid close attention to privacy. VERY close attention, with the bar being swept for bugs once a day, and he invested in the best jamming equipment currently available outside of military/government circles. If you wanted privacy, Bob's Bar was one of the best places to find it.

The regulars often wondered what Bob had done in the past to warrant such paranoia, or if it even was warranted to begin with, but that didn't change the fact that people who wanted to make quiet deals willingly put up with the sub-par food and drinks in return for the security.

Snord looked across the table at Mr. Broker and smiled. Part of the agreement was that he could bring one man, while Broker would bring no one, so Terry Malvinson was by his side, heavily armed and ready for some sort of trap.

"So, what is this mysterious information you have for us, Mr. Broker? Information that will supposedly make me want to kill you on sight. breaking all the traditions of safe passage and honor?"

The gray man leaned forward slightly.

"How's the weather back on Strana Mechty?"

The gun filled Terry's hand so fast, only the surveillance cameras caught it clearly.

~*~

"So this is what I can expect from your people, Snord? From you? Oaths that are as worthless as those of Stefan Amaris?"

That name drew an almost microscopic flinch from both men. "I-" started Malvinson, only to clamp his jaws shut, the muscles tight and strained with the effort. But his pistol never wavered.

"You're no Amaris? He couldn't keep his oaths either. But perhaps you have conflicting oaths, Mr. Malvinson. If so, you'd best decide which ones you'll honor and which you won't." The gray man turned his attention back to Snord, seemingly indifferent to the handgun aimed at his chest. "Well, Captain Snord? You've earned ten percent of your debt to Marik, simply by listening to me. Would you like to try for twenty?"

Cranston looked at the man, examining his face, trying to judge him by the way he held his eyes. "You wanted me to escort you to another meeting. Where, and with whom?"

A thin, unsettling smile cut across Broker's face. "I was thinking of a face to face meeting with Colonel Wolf. As fate would have it, my people and I share an enemy in common with him. We'd like to make him an offer regarding them, and see what he thinks of it." The smile grew a millimeter wider. "There's little in this universe quite so satisfying as getting one's vengeance _and_ making a profit while doing so. Making a profit from your enemy's corpse? Best of all."

The two mercenaries had nothing to say. What rational merc could argue with that philosophy?

~*~

Snord and Malvinson had returned to the _Union_ dropship they'd claimed from McFinney. He'd lived aboard to save the cost of a hotel room, and Cranston didn't see any reason to abandon the practice. Snord waved his subordinate towards the rec room.

"Do you want to talk about it, Terry?"

"Sir?"

"I'm obsessed, not stupid, Terry. Broker mentioned ... that place ... and you were _less_ than a heartbeat away from shooting him. Then his comment about you choosing between oaths." Snord frowned. "I don't know how he got the information he has, but from what he said and your reactions to it, you have orders, orders I didn't give you. Orders from Jaime?"

Malvinson's expression hardened, but he refused to look away. Snord nodded.

"Let me guess - we come across any 'leaks' about certain information, it's your job to plug them up. Even if that leak happens to be me."

Terry's eyes widened slightly, and he winced. "How?"

"I am eccentric, Terry, not blind. If I were in Jaime's position, I would have given the same orders. I _expected_ him to give that order. I simply didn't know who he'd given it to."

Malvinson sighed. "You know I'll have to report to Colonel Wolf, and he'll simply give the same orders to someone else. Someone you won't see coming."

"I know. I'd expect nothing less of him, Terry. I'd do the same. The mission comes first. Now, enough about that for now. I want to hear your thoughts on our mysterious Mr. Broker."

"He didn't flinch. Looked at my Thornhill and didn't care. I think I could have shot him and he wouldn't have even made a sound." Terry's expression was thoughtful. "I can think of certain people who would have been happy to see how he performed in training."

"So can I. And we're likely thinking of the same people. Whom we'd better stop thinking of, if we don't want to slip up," nodded Cranston. "Now's the important question. Do I take him up on his request?"

"Do we have any choice, Captain? If he does have information about our backers, Colonel Wolf is going to want to know, and he'll want to know before the supply run takes place."

"Good point, Terry." Snord thought about it for a moment, then laughed. "And we'll get paid twice. Do this right, and we'll walk away owing the Mariks nothing, and we'll do so without anyone knowing the truth of how we did it. Even 'back home', that will go down in history."

"Heh. I hadn't thought about that. Do you believe he has the supplies he's offered us?"

"He invited us to examine the samples he brought with him. And even from a distance, the _Mule_ he arrived on looked to be in pretty good repair."

"You think he owns it, sir?" queried Malvinson.

"I think either he or his backers own it, Terry. And if I'm right..." Cranston shrugged. "If I'm right, there's someone out there with a big grudge and an even bigger checkbook. I looked in on the escrow payment that he made to the Marik factor. Since I'm one of the involved parties, the bankers allowed me to see some of the details. Mr. Broker's account was backed by gold. A _lot_ of gold. There are some planets in the Inner Sphere that don't have that much gold to their name."

"That's dangerous, sir. HE'S dangerous."

"You're right. It's dangerous. And that means there's profit in it for us. After all, we're mercenaries, Terry. And as long as Mr. Broker's people keep to the contract and are willing to pay, we're willing to fight his battles for him."

"Yes, sir. I only hope we won't end up regretting this."

"Agreed, Terry. We're getting up early tomorrow to take a look at Mr. Broker's 'supplies'. We'll do it just as soon as Shorty arrives. I want his expert opinion on this. Now, go get some sleep."

~*~

Samuel "Shorty" Sneede was in technician's heaven. The three cargo bays of the _Mule_ were crammed full of fresh parts. Fresh. As in newly made, not battlefield salvage that was centuries old and had been scavenged several times over. He looked at the manifest in his hand. There were sixty _freezers_! Not a scratch, not a dent, not a scuff. Not mere 'sinks, but genuine double heat sinks, ready to be installed in a 'mech. Kerensky, what they were worth! If other merc companies knew they were here, there'd be a small war on the landing pad to take this dropship and its contents. Even some of the smaller Houses would be tempted.

He'd asked for, and received, permission to take a crowbar and open several of the crates to check the contents. That's when he began to feel a vague sense of unease. Everything was new.

Too new.

The freezers all had serial numbers dating from the Star League. Even their markings and lables were exactly what they should have been - if they had been aboard one of General Kerensky's supply ships during the Amaris Coup. Yet they were clearly new manufacture, and they weren't cheap copies. From what he could tell with just his eyes and his skills, these freezers were the real deal.

So why go to the trouble of engraving false serial numbers and pasting fake company lables on them?

He asked Broker if he could examine the 'mechs listed on the manifest, and was led to another hold. Just as listed, there were two _Chameleons_, two _Thunderbolts_, and a pair of _Banshee's_.

"I can understand the _Thunderbolts_, but why the _Banshees_? The PPC is okay, but no backup aside from a popgun and a small laser? They're worthless."

Broker grinned. "Perhaps you should check the weapons loadout, Mr. Sneede." He tossed Shorty a technician's override card, one that would allow him to power up the 'mech for systems tests without enabling the weapons or powering the myomers. "Have fun, Mr. Sneede."

Shorty frowned, but climbed up into the cockpit of the first _Banshee_ and fired her up. Flipping through the weapons displays, he noticed something odd - no readout for the class 5 autocannon. He looked closer. _What the hell? _he thought, _there's no autocannon here_. He paused, then flipped back a few screens, comparing readouts. Someone had replaced the autocannon and its ammo with a pair of large lasers. _But that shouldn't work, that would be at least a ton overweight _and_ it would overheat like crazy..._

Then it hit him. He checked the engine POST screen. Fifteen heat sinks instead of the standard sixteen. And all of them freezers.

_Crap. This thing's a trap - for the guy on the _other_ side of the cockpit!_ thought Shorty. Standard means of handling a _Banshee_ was to get in under the minimum range of the autocannon and the PPC, but still stay arm's length away. If it couldn't make physical attacks and you were in too close for the two main weapons, all the _Banshee _had left was a puny small laser. That might give infantry and vehicles some grief, but for most 'mechs, all it would do is ruin their paint job. Then you picked the _Banshee_ apart a bit at a time. But this one? This 'mech was going to be a nasty surprise for the first 'mechwarrior who tried to deal with it 'by the book'. Two large lasers were enough to give anyone a bad day.

He thought about it some more, then shut the _Banshee_ down, heading over to one of the _Chameleons_. But he was already certain of what he'd find. A _Chameleon_ was easily as fast as a _Wasp_ or a _Stinger_, and had far superior weapons with twice the armor of the lighter scout 'mechs. People laughed at them only because they shut down so easily when a 'mechwarrior got careless and overloaded his ten single heatsinks. You shut yourself down with a heat overload on the battlefield, and you died. That's why _Chameleons_ were used as academy trainers - they did such a good job of teaching a rookie the importance of heat management.

Shorty didn't think that _these_ two 'mechs would have that problem.

Cranston had to hear about this, ASAP.

~*~

The _Mule_ dropship was in excellent shape. Snord would almost have thought it newly built. Whoever had restored it had apparently done so from the ground up, with meticulous care. The usual miasma of age and disrepair that permeated most ships simply wasn't there. The rec room looked as if it had taken directly from a photo spread in _Better Jump and Dropships_ magazine.

The coffee was exquisite, with just a tiny hint of chocolate, and no bitterness whatsoever. Cranston set the mug down on the table, and nodded to his host.

"What do you want in return for the 'mechs?"

Broker smiled. "You're creating a unit of your own. Recruiting among the Dispossessed. But some of them won't be quite what you need, given your private agenda, Captain Snord. Some of them will be trustworthy, skilled, but not quite what your Irregulars need." He sipped at his own drink. "These six 'mechs are yours in return for doing a bit of recruiting for my organization. The Dispossessed you cannot make use of, send to me. For every trustworthy Dispossessed mechwarrior you can send to me, I will send you a 'mech. No lostech mechs, perhaps, but still useful. That will be in addition to as many spare freezers as you require."

"You have that many 'mechs to spare?"

"Enough to equip at least a brigade, Captain Snord."

"I'm curious. Exactly what organization would that be, Mr. Broker?"

"My backers are interested in creating a security firm. Units that will defend a paying customer, but who will not accept 'objective raids'. We disapprove of them. In order to provide security for our customers, we will require mechwarriors who will stand behind their contractual obligations. Honorable people who are desperate for a second chance, who won't go back on their word when the situation is dire."

Cranston nodded. "But you evade the question. What firm is this?"

"A touch, Captain Snord, a palpable touch. However, you're correct. I work for a business called Executive Outcomes. We are primarily interested in eliminating piracy in any form, as well as assisting small nations with their self-defense."

"I've never heard of such a firm before."

"I would be surprised if you had, Captain."

Cranston waited, but it was clear no further information would be forthcoming along that particular line of inquiry. He tried another.

"And your insistence on a meeting with Colonel Wolf?"

"I have information he needs. He has information I need. And I would prefer an amicable working relationship between the Dragoons and Executive Outcomes. At the very least, I seek to avoid conflict between the Dragoons and my organization." Broker's eyes twinkled. "There's someone else we'd much prefer to have at the other end of our weapons, and it's so much easier to arrange that if you're not involved in a two-front war."

"I dislike being played, Mr. Broker. And being used to play someone else is worse."

"True, Captain. But then, you haven't signed anything yet, have you? I'm willing to agree to disclosing certain facts before you sign. But only after I meet with Colonel Wolf. I understand that while Gamma and Delta regiments are currently engaged in punitive raids against pirate holdings in the Tortuga Dominions, the colonel is at Ft. Jaime on New Valencia."

"New Valencia is several jumps away. That will take time, unless you can set up a command circuit of jumpships."

"I have something better, Captain. I've added a little walking around money to our previous agreement so you won't be wanting for the little things. The cash is waiting for you at the local ComStar office. See to your people. Repair your dropship. Then, when you're done, come see me again. We have a quick trip to take, before you begin your first contract." Broker laughed. "I'll enjoy the expression on your face. It never fails to amuse me to see how people can miss perfectly simple answers to incredibly obvious problems, preferring to accept overly complicated solutions, solutions tending more to Rube Goldberg complexity than to common sense."

~*~

The 'mechs and fighters were repaired, and his _Union_ was in operational shape. It wasn't as polished at it could be, but Snord felt he could trust it in a combat drop. Making it look pretty could wait.

Once he'd decided to take Broker up on the offer, all of the supplies were moved over to the _Union_, along with the spare mechs. Those alone had given his recruiting efforts a huge boost, with the Dispossessed and those 'mechwarriors simply looking to upgrade their ride all arriving on his doorstep, accompanied by a horde of mechwarrior wannabe's who had hundreds of hours on simulators along with farm boys who thought being able to run the family AgroMech made them a 'mechwarrior.

All in all, it was an embarrassment of riches, as recruitment went.

Actually, given some of the wannabes, sometimes it was just outright embarrassment.

Somehow, word had leaked that a mysterious backer was "...giving away free battlemechs!" While most people refused to believe something that sounded too good to be true, there were enough who were desperate enough to believe anything, if it came with a paycheck attached. And now that Cranston was meeting his payroll, that was good enough for those who were down on their luck and had nowhere else to go.

He'd already found two professional 'mech jocks - one who was dodging child support payments from the Trinity planets in the Free Worlds League, the other with a half-wrecked _Urbanmech_ and no cash to pay for its repair. He assigned one of the _Thunderbolts_ to the _Urbanmech_ jock, Edvard Lytton and told him that as part of his contract, he could either have his _Urbanmech_ restored, or take one of the _Chameleons_ in exchange, once his contract was over. The other pilot, John Jakes, had previous experience with assault mechs, so Cranston assigned him to one of the _Banshees_.

He'd assembled the rest of his team, and he'd delayed as long as he could. Now it was time to see Mr. Broker again.

No matter how much his pride grumbled about it.

~*~

As he'd half expected, Broker informed him that there was a _Tramp_-class jumpship already in orbit, waiting to take them to New Valencia. The otherwise tight-lipped factor wore a tiny smile at Snord's impatience to see exactly how they were to arrive there to the schedule Broker had set.

Docking with the _Lysander Spooner_ didn't help any. The crew of the jumpship was unfailingly polite, and about as talkative as a block of solid granite. Snord did note that the _Tramp_ did appear to be equipped with lithium-fusion batteries. Perhaps that was how Broker expected to speed up the journey? But LF batteries were only good for one extra jump. Sixty light years maximum, if you pre-calculated your jumps accurately enough. Then you'd have to take the minimum 150 hours to recharge. Neither the jump engines nor the batteries would tolerate anything faster. At least, not gracefully. You might do otherwise in an emergency, but you'd pay for it in the end. History was full of ships that made the jump, and never came back out. Cranston still remembered the tales from his childhood about the _Manassas_ and its crew.

And if you believed some of the stories you'd hear in portside bars, those ships were the lucky ones.

He shook his head, trying to purge the shadows of disquiet from his mind. It wouldn't do to brood on the hazards of jump space when they were less than an hour away from Crossing's zenith jump point.

All three of the _Spooner's_ docking collars were occupied. Maybe he'd find some useful information looking around those areas.

~*~

Terry and the others who'd come with Cranston from the Clans were trying to get something, anything, from the crew of the _Spooner_, but weren't getting much of anywhere with the tightlipped jumpship crew. Then the ten-minute jump warning sounded, and everyone not a member of the crew headed for their bumks to strap in.

Malvinson had never taken jumps casually. The leap into and out of hyperspace didn't bother him so much as the feeling of being out of control of the situation. He hated that. It was a feeling that mechwarriors were prone to, by profession.

The warning light went red, quickly followed by the unmistakable sensation of a jump. Terry was aware that the ship had LF batteries, so the fact that the light remained red didn't surprise him, and the second jump didn't catch him unaware.

The shock of a third jump did.

~*~

Shorty Sneede was a veteran, uninclined to panic no matter how serious the situation. The shudder of a third jump, followed closely by a fourth, made him wish he was. Running around in a circle, screaming and shouting, wasn't very helpful, but it did have a certain sort of attraction at times like this. A few minutes later, the light went green and he quickly unstrapped himself, heading to Snord's cabin. They had to find out just what the hell had just happened, and how. Right now.

~*~

Broker's cabin was too small to hold all of the Irregulars. So Cranston and Shorty faced the man while the rest of the Irregulars stood in the corridor outside. Snord kept it blunt. He left the hatch open so his team could hear.

"How?"

Broker didn't bother denying he understood what Cranston was asking. He turned slightly, the magnetic soles of his shoes clacking quietly. He held out a small model of a _Behemoth_ class dropship.

"Dropships are interesting things, Mr. Snord. When you get right down to it, when you strip them of their fusion engines, fuel tanks, life support and controls, they're actually little more than a large container. Cargo carriers. What, exactly, can they carry? Please, tell me."

Snord gave the factor a strange look. "Anything. Men, material, anything at all. Cargo is cargo."

"Including batteries?"

Realization exploded in Cranston's mind like an overloaded PPC. "The other two dropships on the docking collars. They're not dropships. They're batteries," he said in a wondering tone. "You've hollowed them out and filled them with lithium-fusion batteries."

Broker nodded. "Very good, Captain. It's actually somewhat more complex than that, but you have the basic concept quite accurately."

"But that only gets you..." Cranston ran the numbers in his head. One charge in the jump drive itself. One charge in the onboard LF batteries. Assume one charge each for the two.. what to call them, battery pods? .. docked to the jumpship. "... four jumps. It should still take you at least 150 hours to recharge the drive for another jump, and even longer to recharge the additional batteries."

"Quite right. Which is why we aren't going to recharge them." Broker touched the key of the intercom. "Report, Captain."

A slightly tinny-sounding voice answered from the other end of the connection. "The _Pyotr Kropotkin_ is here on schedule, sir. We're ready to proceed with battery exchange."

"Then carry on, Captain. Advise me when it's completed. We have curious guests who'd like a briefing."

"I expect they would, sir." The voice on the other end chuckled slightly, then the connection terminated. Broker turned back towards Cranston.

"That, Mr. Snord, is one of the more useful attributes of a dropship. They can be docked and undocked."

Cranston nodded, just as Shorty cleared his throat.

"You're leaving the discharged batteries behind, and picking up fresh, pre-charged ones. If - if you could do that at every jump point, the only limit to your speed would be the time it takes for the jump drive to cool properly. You could cross the Inner Sphere in days!"

"Why, yes, I suppose you could, Mr. Sneede. What a useful idea. I should bring it to the attention of my backers with the utmost urgency, I suppose," Broker replied in an innocent tone of voice. Shorty flushed with embarrassment at having proclaimed the utterly obvious to everyone. Broker waved it off.

"You needn't feel foolish, Mr. Sneede. Remember, the first Kearny-Fuchida drive was invented nearly one thousand years ago, and lithium fusion batteries during the Star League era. Yet in all those centuries, no one has thought to design a battery that's modular? If you're a fool, Mr. Sneede, so are billions of other men and women over a thousand years. You're in the best of company."

~*~

After being told that they'd be holding position for one day to allow the jump drive to cool, the Irregulars returned to their _Union_, gathering in the rec deck.

"Does anyone else feel mentally overloaded?" asked the usually quiet Shalimar Windall.

"I do," answered John Malvinson, Terry's brother. "But Broker had a point. If we're fools for missing the idea of modular batteries, so is the rest of the Inner Sphere. We've got a lot of company, there."

Terry passed around bulbs of hot coffee and whisky to all present. "Point taken. But more important, what happens when - _not_ if - the idea spreads to the Successor States? You increase the range of a jump ship, you increase its ability to make war. That's WHY the Terran Alliance surrendered all of their colonies more than one jump away from Earth itself, back in 2242 CE. The delay in turnaround time crippled their ability to respond to a rebellion quickly enough to suppress it."

That caused everyone in the room to go silent for a long moment.

"Crap's going to hit the fan pretty soon," Shorty noted. "Plenty of planets where they use battery powered cars, and the owners simply swap exhausted batteries for fresh ones. They'll have the people who understand the business framework to make something like that work reliably. Once it starts to spread, it'll spread fast."

"There's nothing we can do about that, Shorty." Cranston's voice was matter-of-factual. "Our job is to see to it that Colonel Wolf gets all the information he need on the Inner Sphere. And I think all the info we can get on Mr. Broker and this 'Executive Outcomes' that he's working for. Everything else is out of our hands. If we can't take it down with a battlemech, or smuggle it out of a collection, it's not our problem to worry about."

"I guess so, Skipper. But that doesn't make it any easier to live with."

"Can't be helped, Shorty. We'll just have to keep our eyes and ears open, and give Jamie all the info we can. For now, that's all we can do." Cranston grinned. "And if Broker is dealing fairly with us, we'll come out of this with enough cash and 'mechs to fit up two companies or more. So there is a good side to this after all."

"I'll be able to afford that collection of 21st century baseball cards," John said. "I can live with that."

"That's it, boys, look on the bright side of things," Snord chuckled.

~*~

Most of the Irregulars were eating, and waiting for the next round of jump drive warning klaxons. Of the two new men, Lytton was applying his patent cure for jump nausea, a bottle of grain alcohol - a belief that Shorty shared, much to Snord's amusement. Jakes wasn't eating at all. He'd informed his new commander that he tended to vomit after a jump unless he kept his stomach empty. A sensible precaution, that.

Cranston, however, was dealing with the traditional bane of all military commanders throughout space and time.

Paperwork.

_It's a pity_, he thought to himself. _It's a pity I can't travel back in time to kill the canister-born scum who invented triple carbon-copies. If I could do that, I could die a happy man._

A tap at the hatch made his raise his eyes from the _savashi_ paperwork to see Windall standing in the corridor.

"Enter."

Windall's face looked grim, thought it was hard to tell through his habitually silent, stoic expression. Cranston waved him to a seat.

"What's bothering you, Shal?"

"We're being used," frowned Windall.

"That's what mercenaries are for, Shal. We get paid to do other people's dirty work."

"We are not really mercenaries. And Broker knows it. He knows too much."

"And you think we should kill him."

"I do."

"While we're on _his_ jumpship, Shal?"

"There is that."

"There's nothing we can do about it at the moment," sighed Cranston. "A good commander knows when to lead, when to follow, and when to get the hell out of the way of incoming fire." That got an almost-smirk from Windall. Almost. "Whether we like it or not, this is one problem that's best shuffled higher up the chain of command, Shal. That means Colonel Wolf. And perhaps..." He waved his hand in an odd gesture. Even aboard their own dropship, you could never be certain someone might overhear you. It was too great a risk to speak the name of Kerlin Ward aloud. "Besides, there's something else you should consider."

"What?"

"_How_ does he know what he knows, Shal? Where did his information come from? Do we have a leak? Do the Dragoons have a leak? And if so, where is it? We need to know that before we can even begin to think about dealing with Broker. It does us no good if his source, whatever it may be, simply continues to inform others. To cut down a tree, you have to strike at the roots, not the branches."

"I don't like it."

"I'm not terribly fond of it myself, Shal. But at the moment, there's little we can do, except be patient and see our mysterious factor to his meeting with Colonel Wolf. After that, all bets are off."

"I suppose that will have to do."

"In the meantime, I want you to start noting down everything you see on the _Spooner_, however unimportant it may seem at the time. On paper, no noteputers. Get everyone else to do the same. The Colonel will expect a full report for us." Snord paused for a moment, then continued. "And make certain it's damned well hidden. I know Broker expects us to spy on him, but we don't have to hand him confirmation of that on a silver platter."

That wrung a smile from the dour Windall.

"Aff, Captain."

~*~

The klaxons wailed, and Cranston prepared for what he assumed would be another damned double jump. He wasn't as bad off as Jakes, but a jump still made him a little greenish, and two in short succession would only made it worse.

Of course, once the jumps were finished, he'd be facing Jaime again, and that was enough to give a person a nervous stomach all by itself. Jaime Wolf might be a young man, but he had that command presence. If Jaime and his brother hadn't been freebirth, Cranston thought, they'd probably be among Clan Wolf's _ristars_ right now. And the Clans would likely be the better for it. Pity.

But wasn't this entire mission an example of that? Freeborn, desperate for a chance, and pulling off a mission one hell of a lot more effectively than any Trueborn?

There were going to be a lot of angry, humiliated faces at the Grand Council a few years from now.

And there went the klaxons. Ten minutes to the first jump. In an hour or two, they'd be in New Valencia space, headed towards planetfall.

Would Colonel Wolf believe any of his story? He was living it, and _he_ didn't believe it.

He finished strapping down, and settled into the embrace of the memory foam. There was nothing left to do but wait. And that's what soldiers did best.

~*~

"Who ARE these people?"

Jaime Wolf wasn't a man who displayed anger openly. He didn't scream at his subordinates like some commanders did, thinking that it made them seem more martial. But he was angry now. Despite that, the irony of his question didn't escape him, and a tiny corner of his mind insisted on being amused by it. He waved a hand at the papers covering his desk.

"I have a dozen reports here, and aside from those sent by Captain Snord, they all say the same thing. Absolutely nothing. Why is that?"

The few members of Intelser who had come to the Inner Sphere with the Dragoons stood before him with shamed faces, as did the members of the newly formed Wolfnet. Major Margret Tulliver stepped forward.

"Executive Operations does not appear to exist inside the Inner Sphere except as a number of front offices and a large cash reserve, sir. An extremely large cash reserve. Impossibly large." She held up a fiche. "I received this just before this meeting. It's a portion of an intercepted conversation from inside the offices of Hottinger & Cie, Banquiers Privés, Geneva, Terra. One of our informants learned we were asking about this company, and rushed the information to us." Her lips twisted slightly. "For the usual price, of course." She put the fiche in a reader, displaying it on the room's main screen. "Please pardon the errors in translation, Colonel, Swiss German tends to vary somewhat from its mother tongue, and our informant was quoting one side of a conversation from memory."

"Yes it could be a problem." —...— "I _think_ a good one... maybe. Well you see, I just got the latest deposit numbers for the bank, and... see for yourself." —...— "Yes that is accurate. I ran the numbers enough times before coming to you." —...— "Welll, with that much gold moving around I decided to check the banks it was routed from all across the Inner Sphere, and these deposits could not be accounted for out of their standard reserves." —...— "No. This is too obvious for any of the Great Houses' black operations. Plus they don't need to try and hide something like this. Mining it would at least have made the news _somewhere_." —...— "I know. But given that every trace dead-ends with some minor precious metals dealer walking into a bank somewhere in the Inner Sphere with a comparatively small deposit of gold, they really don't have to care about being back-tracked. It's not until those small deposits all started heading for the same bank that anyone would notice." —...— "I honestly don't know. All I can say is to be glad that whoever this Broker guy is chose our bank to end up depositing five thousand TONS of gold into."

Colonel Wolf examined the transcript closely. "If I remember my Inner Sphere history correctly, the Swiss will want someone's head over a leak like this. Literally."

Major Tulliver nodded. "Yes, sir. Our informant is requesting that as part of their payment, they and their family are to be extracted from Terra and taken on as dependants of the Dragoons."

Wolf thought that over for a moment. "Get them to a safe house as soon as possible. If this information proves accurate, bring them in to the Dragoons and try to find a place for the entire family." He sighed. "I have a meeting scheduled with Mr. Broker in slightly over 72 hours from now, and he appears to have more information about the Dragoons than I do about him, Major. I do _not_ like being in that position. I would prefer that to change for the better. Am I making myself clear?"

Major Tulliver braced. "Sir, yes Sir!"

The Colonel sighed. "I'm not angry with you, Major. I'm angry with the situation. Not that my anger is doing anything helpful at the moment. Find me what information you can as fast as you can. I'd prefer not to have to deal with this man when I have nothing on my side to deal with."

"Understood, sir. With your permission?"

"Dismissed," nodded Wolf.

Once Tulliver left, Jaime reached for the intercom. "Joshua, do you have a moment? I need some insight."

"I'll be right over."

A few minutes later, Joshua Wolf entered the office. "What can I do for you, big brother?"

"Look at this, and tell me what you think," Jaime said, waving at the papers on his desk.

Joshua gave the desk a quick glance and smirked. "I think you have a very messy desk."

"Very funny, little brother," Jaime said dryly. "Now sit down and start reading."

Joshua laughed and complied.

Fifteen minutes later, he hmm'ed thoughtfully. "This Broker - or at least the power behind him - isn't from anywhere in the Inner Sphere."

"How did you get that from this mess?"

"If there's anything to this report from the Terran bank, that's simply too much gold. Five thousand tons? An average world might produce twenty-five hundred metric tons in one year. So this is a sizable portion of someone's gold reserves. Even one of the Successor States would be happy to get their hands on this much gold." He did some figures in his head. "Assume... oh... 200 worlds to a Successor state, just for argument's sake. And every one of them producing 2500 tons of gold each year, which is statistically improbable, by the way. Then this would be one half of one percent of their annual gold mining output. It sounds small when it's put that way, but that's a significant figure for a private individual. It could be used to finance a great deal."

"Such as a new, combined-arms equipped, private security company?" Jaime snarked.

"Such as that," agreed Joshua, grinning.

"So it's unlikely that it's an Inner Sphere power that's backing him, moving that much gold around would attract too much notice. Come to think of it, it _did_ attract someone's notice. Ours. But I digress. It can't be the Inner Sphere. It's even more unlikely that it's a Periphery power. If they had that much gold, they'd have been raided blind and staggery by now and the raiders would have bragged about it until their tongues fell out. Which means it's a previously unknown power. One either very well hidden, or well outside known space, or both." Joshua grimaced. "I think a new player's just entered the game, brother. One who's either been stockpiling gold for quite some time, or they've hit a motherload and gone on a spending spree."

Jaime threw his hands up. "Now, see? If I have someone as smart as you on my side, why do I keep Wolfnet around?"

"Because I can't be everywhere at once?"

"There is that."

"And of course, with my roguish good looks, I make us both look good."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Go on, go impress someone else with them. I'm immune."

"I'll do that," Joshua chuckled. "I hope I helped."

"You did. At least I won't look totally in the dark when Broker arrives. Thank you."

"Anytime, big brother."

~*~

It felt strange to be returning to the Dragoons like this, Cranston thought. Sent off in (official) disgrace for being a looter, and now returning with a command of his own. Snord wasn't unfamiliar with the burden of command, but there were still moments when the realization that, should a problem occur, _he_ was the final link in the chain of command still felt heavy. He shrugged it off. _You knew the job was a pain in the ass when you took it_, he thought to himself, _so it's too late to bitch about it now._

Still, if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. All of his Irregulars 'mechs were visibly well maintained, his people well-groomed and obviously cared for, and while the _Union_ was clearly war-worn, it was just as clearly well-maintained. (And hadn't THAT cost a pretty penny from the money he'd obtained from Broker... getting rush service that was also of the highest quality wasn't cheap.)

The new 'mechs drove the point further home. Shorty had gone over them like a man obsessed. They appeared to be brand-new, just off the factory floor. The question was, what factory? As with the freezers, all the serial numbers and makers' marks dated from the era of the Star League. Yet they clearly weren't that old. Shorty had suspected a trap, yet dig as he could, he couldn't find any traps in the mechs.

It didn't mean he'd stop looking though. Sneede had vowed that once this meeting was over, he was going to hire an entire stable of techs to go over them for clues, now that Cranston had the visible means of support to afford to do so.

And that was something else that helped. Whoever Broker was, he apparently didn't give a damn about who tried to dig about in his past. Colonel Wolf had to be careful - the connection between the Irregulars and the Dragoons had to be buried deep. But Mr. Broker and his outfit didn't seem to care.

The level of confidence that implied was disturbing. Of course, the fact that no one seemed to be able to FIND anything about his past probably helped bolster that confidence.

As did the thought of someone or something able to build entire 'mechs, yet willing to fake their origin. Normally, only Successor States could do that, and even then, only with difficulty.

Well, them - and the Clans.

Definitely something that needed reporting to Colonel Wolf.

~*~

"Welcome to Fort Jamie, Mr. Broker."

"Thank you, Major Wolf. May I inquire as to when Colonel Wolf will be available for talks?"

"In about two hours, sir. He thought you might prefer the opportunity to freshen up a bit after all that time in transit. If so, we've arranged quarters here on base for you."

Broker nodded politely. "Thank you, Major, I believe I would."

"Then please follow me, sir. My aid will see to your luggage." Joshua Wolf waved the older man to the waiting command car. "Are there any amenities we can provide?"

The two men climbed into the ground car while Wolf's aid loaded up Broker's luggage. "Would it be possible for me to get something to eat? I realize it's only mid-morning, but I'm afraid my biological clock is a bit off.

Joshua nodded. "The Colonel was made aware of the time difference between New Valencia and Crossing, sir. He's ordered a light luncheon laid on to start the meeting, if you'd like. Or some small snacks can be made available if you'd prefer."

"The luncheon sounds delightful, Major. Please give the Colonel my compliments and inform him I'd be more than happy to begin the meeting with a light meal. Will his staff be there?"

"Myself and a few others, sir. Along with his bodyguards. I'm sure you understand the necessity."

"I do," nodded Broker. "Given the business we're in, I'd be shocked to see otherwise."

"Will you need any of your staff, sir? Arrangements can be made, if required."

"No, Major. I believe I have all the information I need."

"It sounds like it could be an interesting meeting, sir."

"Yes, Major Wolf, I expect it will be."

~*~

Broker looked up from the menu with an amused expression on his face.

"Hungarian Tomato Vodka soup? Miso Saki Shrimp? Where did your chef study, Colonel? The Ecole de Gastronomie Ritz-Escoffier? Or with ComStar's ROM? A better pair of tension-breaking, tongue-loosening dishes I haven't seen."

Colonel Wolf chuckled at the man's light-hearted tone. "I fear my personal cook has the occasional daydream of someday becoming a daring, professional intelligence agent. But he doesn't allow it to interfere with his work, and he is really quite skilled."

Broker tasted the tomato soup. "Excellent. Far be it from me to stand between a man and his dreams, but I suspect that his path to personal fame lies in the kitchen, not the interrogation room." That got a light laugh from the rest of the room.

When the dishes were cleared, cigars and snifters of brandy were passed around. "At the risk of being blunt, Mr. Broker, you've paid an exceptionally large sum to arrange this meeting between us. So, might I ask the purpose of it?"

"Thank you Colonel. Simply put, Executive Outcomes doesn't want to come to blows with your Dragoons unnecessarily. Most of the contract talks we're currently engaged in are on worlds in the Periphery, but you have taken at least one objective raid outside the Inner Sphere in the name of piracy suppression. You may, in the future, be called upon to raid a world we've contracted to protect. If it ever comes to that, we'd prefer to negotiate first. It's less costly, most of the time."

"That's quite acceptable, Mr. Broker, but there's a question we'd need to have answered first."

"And that would be?"

The elder of the two Wolf brothers leaned forward intently. "Who are you, and how do you know of us, Mr. Broker? That, I'm afraid, is the deal-breaking question."

~*~

"Who are you? What do you want? Interesting questions both of them, Colonel Wolf. Dangerous questions with dangerous answers. Are you certain they're ones you wish to hear?"

"If we're to conduct business, Mr. Broker, then I'm afraid I must insist."

"Very well then," nodded Broker. He swirled the brandy in his snifter, then straightened in his seat. "A promise made is a debt unpaid, Colonel Wolf. And debts are sacred among my people. My word is my bond. And my word is that what I tell you now is truth as I know it. I cannot tell you everything now, but what I can, will be fact. Take that for what you will." He reached into his pocket, removing a heavy gold coin, laying it on the table in front of him, sliding it in Wolf's direction. "Fifty grams of 99.99 fine gold. An ancient tradition among my people. If you will accept it?"

Jaime picked up the coin, looking at it curiously. The face carried a starburst inside of the Greek letter omega. Turning it over revealed the same two symbols. "And this is?"

"My surety, Colonel."

Wolf rubbed the coin between his fingers, and acting in an impulse he couldn't quite identify, slipped it into his pocket. "The answers, Mr. Broker?"

"Who are you. What do you want. How do we know about you. They all have the same answer, Colonel." Broker sighed. "My people left the Inner Sphere centuries ago. We shook the dust of the Terran Hegemony from our cloaks, and never looked back. We didn't need the Known Worlds - please note the capitals there - and we didn't want them. We built a new society, one closer to our hearts desire. And we did it because of Ian Cameron."

"The founder of the Star League?" asked Joshua Wolf.

"Yes. We didn't trust James McKenna, we certainly didn't trust Ian Cameron, and we made preparations. By the time Amaris arrived, we'd long since left. We'd been preparing since before the Pollux Proclamation."

"That was in 2575. Over four centuries ago," pointed out Joshua.

Jared shrugged. "To us, Ian Cameron's dream, the dream he'd inherited from McKenna, was our nightmare. Cameron said it himself." There was quiet anger in his eyes as he quoted. "There is no good reason for the intransigence of the people who will not recognize the greater good of laying down their independence for the sake of joining our League. There is no good reason for people to insist on resisting the superior wisdom of those who have come before them into the fold, not is there reason for them to seek their own lonely course far from the centers of culture and civilization."

"He wouldn't rest until all humanity was united under one banner - his. As for the few who valued independence over safety, to hell with them. It was, after all, for their own good. Or so he claimed."

The Dragoons stirred, uncomfortable. Even to them, perhaps especially to them, this bordered on heresy.

"We began our plans when McKenna overthrew the Alliance, working quietly. We began to leave human space when Cameron gave the orders to subjugate the Periphery realms. We cut ourselves off entirely when an agent in the Rim Worlds Republic warned us of Stephan Amaris' intended coup. And we never intended to return."

"But you have returned," pointed out Jaime gravely. "Why?"

"Have you ever heard of the jumpship TAS _Liberator_, Colonel?"

Wolf strained his memory, but couldn't recall a ship of that name. The prefix indicated it belonged to the old Terran Alliance, but that was all he could bring to mind. Major Tulliver's eyes widened, though. He looked over at her. "Major?"

"The _Liberator_ was a colony ship lost in mid-jump, sir. A first generation colony ship with several hundred colonists, lost in 2128 CE. Twelve years after the colonizing of New Earth." Tulliver's hobby was the history of early interstellar flight. She'd committed the names of the first wave of colony ships to memory.

"She's not lost, Major. The word 'lost' implies that no one knows where it is." Broker nodded towards her, a strange expression on his face.

"You've found her?" asked Tulliver, with the innocent wonder of a historian in her voice.

"Her, and several others, Major. Including one belonging to the Clans."

~*~

An astounded babble began to grow in the hall, rising in volume until Jaime Wolf cut it off with a sharp slash of one hand.

"And what might this 'Clan' ship be, Mr. Broker?"

"Please, Colonel. You've accepted my surety. Do me the honor of respecting it, sir, as I do you the honor of giving you the truth as I know it."

Wolf automatically began to deny all knowledge of the Clans, but the words died on his lips. Honor. He paused for a long moment, thoughtfully fingering the coin in his pocket. He came to a decision. "Please, sir, continue."

The unsettling expression on Broker's face remained there, but he continued on. "A ship belonging to the merchant caste of Clan Diamond Shark was found. There were, unfortunately, no survivors. But one of the merchants was apparently fascinated by history, and collected hardcopy works, works that survived even when the computer cores of the jumpship and its attached dropships were reduced to slag by power surges."

"And where exactly did she misjump to, Mr. Broker?"

"To within our borders, Colonel."

"And that would be where?"

Broker gave him a level, yet respectful gaze. "My word of honor, Colonel. And yours."

Jaime returned the look. "I understand. Perhaps under other circumstances?"

"Perhaps, Colonel."

"And you were saying?"

"We were isolationist, Colonel. But we weren't blind. If one ship of the Clans could find us, albeit a ship of the dead, so could another."

"And you decided to act upon what you'd learned."

"What we learned was out of date. Stale intelligence is worthless intelligence. We knew we had to learn more. So, however reluctantly, we returned to the Inner Sphere. But there was a problem, Colonel." Broker paused to take a sip of his brandy. "We are Kyfhon. We will fight for what we believe in, but we will never be thieves."

The Dragoons noticed the odd term, but forbore to inquire, not wanting to interrupt the moment.

"Value given for value received, Colonel. As mercenaries, you can understand that."

"Yes, I can." Jaime thought about that for a moment. "An honest day's pay for an honest day's labor."

"Exactly, Colonel. We watch. We wait. We don't steal. What better way to do all three at the same time than to offer private security?"

"An excellent cover. That would work for the Inner Sphere. It wouldn't work for the Clans."

Jared held up a finger. "The Clans have a problem, sir. They are so busy watching each other, they fail to watch for outsiders." He looked at Tulliver pointedly. Her eyes filled with irritation, but she said nothing in reply. "The Chatterweb the Diamond Sharks set up is quite informative, if you only listen for it." That statement widened eyes throughout the room.

"Oh, they haven't betrayed the Clans. But your communication security isn't nearly as tight as you'd like to think, Major. The Kyfhon worlds have been listening in - oh, very carefully, mind you - for quite some time now. So we watch, and we wait. And should it come to blows, what better place to fight, than on someone else's property?"

Joshua spoke up. "You seem to believe we're serving the Clans, Mr. Broker. Aren't you concerned that anything you say here will be promptly reported to them?"

"I rather expect it will, Major Wolf. Actually, we hope it will. It serves two purposes. One is confidential. The other is... sentimental."

"Sentimental?"

"Not everyone aboard the Diamond Shark ship died instantly, Major Wolf. Some survived, briefly. Unfortunately." The fey expression had returned to Jared's face. "I mean no insult by that. It's simply that there are far worse ways to die other than explosive decompression or asphyxiation. Things... happen... in jump space that no sane man should know about. I wish I did not." He took a deep breath. "As I said, there was at least one who survived for a short time. She left a message and a request. She asked that if the ship was ever found, that their bodies be returned to Clan Diamond Shark. The message she left saved many lives, Major. Far more than you could ever know. My people _owe_ her. A debt unpaid is a promise made. Their bodies _will_ be returned to the Clans, whatever the cost to us."

Broker sighed. "Who are we? We are Kyfhon. Militant isolationists reluctantly involving ourselves in affairs outside of our own, for our own survival. What do we want? We want to be left alone, by the Clans AND by the Inner Sphere. We're willing to fight for that. We're willing to die for that. We're willing to kill for that. Where are we? A good deal further than your jumpships can possibly reach, Colonel.

"And we're one other thing, Colonel Jaime Wolf of the Wolf's Dragoons. Perhaps the most important thing of all."

He lifted the brandy snifter and drained it in a single swallow, setting it gently to rest on the tabletop before he sent the room into an uproar with his next words.

"We never signed the Ares Accords."

~*~

It took several uncomfortably long moments for Colonel Wolf to quiet his people. Then he turned back to Broker. "That's an dangerous threat."

"It isn't a threat, Colonel. It's a statement of fact, not intent. Unlike the Inner Sphere, my people never went through an Interregnum. Our libraries and universities never burned. Our factories were never bombed into rubble. While progress slowed from time to time, it never stopped. And it certainly never went into reverse. We're as far ahead of the Clans as they are of the Inner Sphere. Further, perhaps. Depending on whose opinion you choose to accept."

"And leaving the Inner Sphere caused no interruption? I'd think that the process of settling a new world would cause difficulties," pointed out Joshua Wolf.

"We found a way around that, Major." Jared's lips quirked. "Something else we refused to share with the Star League. Mr. Ryan was helpful in that regard."

"Rudolf Ryan, of the Ryan Cartel?"

"Yes. He was one of us. But I digress. One of the founding principles of our people is 'An armed society is a polite society.' And by any measure, we are a very polite people, Major. Every individual among us goes about armed at all times. Armed people are _free_ people, sir. And should the Clans enter our space, they'll learn some bitter lessons. Should they attempt to bypass our personal weapons by threatening the use of fusion devices or mass drivers, we'll retaliate with far more fearsome things." He paused for a moment, looking at his empty glass. "Trust me, sir. There are far more frightening things than a clean and painless death in the heart of a nuclear fireball. Some of them, we possess. We do not want to use them. But we will never serve the Clans. We are _Kyfhon_."

Colonel Wolf quirked an eyebrow. "You say you go about armed at all times, yet I see no sidearm..."

Jared laughed. "If I might borrow your aid-de-camp for a moment, Colonel? I promise I'll return him entirely unharmed."

Jaime nodded to the lieutenant. "Go ahead, Randal."

"Thank you," said Broker. He looked over to the lieutenant and indicated the coat-rack near the entrance. "Would you examine my fedora closely, young man?" The young officer looked at the factor, puzzled, but obeyed. "There's a thin plastic stiffener in the hatband. Fish it out, and undo the clip that's holding it under tension." The young man did so. "Now, grip it firmly by the textured end, and strike the other end sharply on any hard surface. Be careful. You'll understand in a second."

The young officer did so, and almost dropped it when the thin plastic strip suddenly writhed and changed shape in his hand, warming as it did so. In a fraction of a second, he was holding a small, yet still very lethal looking knife. "How?!"

"Phase-shifting polymer with molecular memory. The sudden kinetic shock causes it to 'remember' it's original shape. Now it'll have to be gently heated, then carefully pressed to return it to the shape of a hat stiffener." Broker grinned. He looked almost boyish for a moment. "You scanned me for weapons before I entered, gentlemen, but you scanned only for those weapons you're familiar with. Among my people, turning everyday items into weapons is considered high art, and the artists are greatly honored. Nearly everything I'm wearing is a weapon of some sort."

That statement caused the Colonel's bodyguards to shift closer to him, hovering around him tightly. Broker eyed their actions approvingly.

"Nicely professional, gentlemen. You'll need to be briefed on how to deal with some of the more esoteric weapons available to my people, but you're doing an excellent job of covering your principle."

The bodyguards wore stone faces, but there was still a faint air of embarrassment around them. Wolf chuckled. "No one is perfect, gentlemen. Not even the Dragoons. Stand easy. I don't think Mr. Broker poses a threat to me yet. Not as long as there's still a possibility of negotiating with us, correct?"

"Thank you, Colonel. And you're quite correct. So, will the Dragoons discuss terms with Executive Outcomes?"

"We will. Will the standard contract suffice, or will we need something more elaborate?"

"I don't believe there will be any need for complexities, Colonel. I can state our terms here, and Major Wolf can write them up in official language at his leisure. I know you're a man of your word. That's good enough for me."

"And what do you want from the Dragoons, sir?"

"Just this: should the Dragoons be hired for an 'objective raid' against a planet currently being secured by Executive Outcomes, they will request a parley with forces under EO command before attacking. If a compromise cannot be reached with EO and their employers during the parley, all parties involved will be allowed to leave, and the conflict will commence only after all parties have left the field. Is that acceptable to Wolf's Dragoons? It isn't all that dissimilar to the clause you insist upon concerning the use of the Dragoons against their previous employer, or the standard 'two week warning' in most mercenary contracts, and under most circumstances shouldn't be objectionable to your employers."

"And if they should?"

"Then you may freely delete that clause as you will, provided you inform us of having done so. That's all we ask of you. In return, we will inform you in advance of what worlds we are garrisoning, and maintain open lines of communication with the Dragoons at all times."

Colonel Wolf nodded thoughtfully. "Is there any sense of urgency?"

"No, sir. I am at your disposal for the next month, should it be required. My assistants and associates are fully capable of handling the routine affairs of EO."

"You're the head of the corporation?"

A fleeting look of anger crossed Broker's face. "Please, sir, I would kindly ask that you do NOT use the term 'corporation' when referring to Executive Outcomes."

"May I ask why not?" requested a curious Jaime Wolf.

"Corporations are creatures of the State, artificial constructs created by it and having several privileges that protect them from the pressures of a truly free market. Among these are that governments artificially and automatically limit corporate liability by fiat; and responsibility for errors is shifted over to a fictional entity."

"And if Executive Outcomes isn't an corporation, what is it?"

"We are a joint-stock company with all profits automatically reinvested to maximize operating capital - a deferred profit venture, if you will. 'Profit' can take forms other than monetary gain, you understand. Every member of EO assumes full responsibility for his or her actions. Though liabilities may be insured, if the individual so chooses."

"So if a mistake is made..."

"On our own heads, so be it."

"An excellent attitude to take, Mr. Broker. I could only wish more people would do so."

"Thank you, Colonel." Jared blinked. "Now, I suspect, you'll want to discuss what you've learned, and my circadian rhythm is _quite_ thrown off by the journey here. If someone would show me the way back to my quarters, I'll rest while you talk."

Wolf gestured to his aid, who was still examining the polymer knife with fascination. "Randal will see to that, Mr. Broker. And thank you for the information."

"You hold my surety, Colonel. It was - and still is - a matter of honor." Broker bowed slightly. "Still, it was a pleasure speaking with you. I hope our negotiations will be successful."

~*~

Things had indeed gone well, Jaime thought. It had taken his brother and the Dragoons' civilian liaison section just under a week to write a contract that was satisfactory to both sides, and would (hopefully) be just as acceptable to any future employers of the Dragoons. Broker had made it clear that EO's forces would engage only in defensive actions in favor of their clients and their clients' property. They were also quite willing to engage in arbitration over what "defensive actions" might be defined as.

Broker had also offered support in the unlikely event that the Dragoons might need assistance at some time in the future. While Jaime hadn't taken him up on that yet, the fact that the Dragoons were dependant on a single, external supply for most of their 'mechs and advanced equipment was still at the forefront of his mind. Broker was still evasive about where his people resided, but he made it quite clear that his people were not merely socially independent from the Inner Sphere, but technologically autonomous as well, and willing to contract with anyone who they considered honorable.

It would be a tremendous weight off of his shoulders to have a secondary source of supplies, and Jaime knew it.

He still couldn't help but be somewhat suspicious of the unit's good fortune, though. Mercs who weren't paranoid tended to become dead mercs in very short order.

The official contract signing and escrow bonding between the Dragoons and EO would take place tonight at a more formal ceremony. And perhaps he might get a little more information out of Jared about these mysterious 'Kyfhons' and where they'd originated from. There were dozens of bizarre philosophical cults that had developed over the centuries since the Kearney-Fuchida jump drive had made extra-solar colonies possible. A man couldn't be too careful. And it privately amused Jaime to know that Broker agreed with him on that subject.

After all, Wolf knew all about keeping your homeworlds a secret. Though, apparently, not quite as secret as the Khans had hoped. A small and still somewhat resentful corner of his mind found that fact vastly amusing.

~*~

The contract signing went off without any problems and the dinner was excellent. Broker had praised the cook, much to the young man's embarrassment, and the after-dinner conversation at the reception looked to be quite interesting.

"If it wouldn't be considered prying, Mr. Broker, may I ask what contracts your company has currently?" inquired Joshua Wolf.

"No, it wouldn't, Major." Broker smiled and waited. The young officer groaned as he realized how neatly he'd set himself up for the old joke, then laughed.

"What contracts have you undertaken, sir?"

"New St. Andrews has requested aid as they suffer from pirate raids several times a year. We currently have one unit on the ground, and will use it to help train the Dispossessed that we intend to recruit from the Inner Sphere."

Colonel Wolf looked interested. "I would have thought that a single world that remote wouldn't be able to afford your services, Mr. Broker."

"Normally, no. You're quite right. But while they don't have cash assets, EO is willing to accept items in trade. In this case, New St. Andrews is offering extra-territoriality. A small coastal island of about thirteen hundred square kilometers will be ceded to us for so long as we remain to defend the planet against pirates and external threats. The first units have already begun to construct a base there, not dissimilar to Fort Jaime."

Colonel Wolf looked slightly embarrassed. "I tried to insist they name it something else-"

Jared laughed. "No need to apologize, Colonel. Although I do understand your feelings. I had to remind several of my employees of their contractual obligations to the company to keep them from naming the island 'Isla de Agente'." That got laughs from the Dragoons listening to the conversation. "I believe that, as of the last ballot, the winning suggestion was "Isla de Anarquista'."

"That's rather fitting," noted Major Tulliver.

Jared nodded. "I'm not quite certain as to why the personnel on the ground want to name it in old Spanish, but I suspect it's because of one of my junior officers. He's something of a fan of 20th century motion pictures, disaster movies in particular. Remind me before I leave, and I'll give you a copy of the recording I believe is responsible for his choice. You'll find it rather reminiscent of Hunter's Paradise - and you'll feel quite glad you're a 'mech pilot. Some of the creatures in it could give an _Stinger_ or a _Wasp_ a run for their money."

"That's hard to believe," said a young mech pilot.

"You've never been to that world," replied Broker. "According to records of the era, the creatures of Hunter's Paradise were so dangerous, Star League researchers were forced to resort to using battlemechs to study them, simply for safety's sake. But I believe I'm wandering off topic. The major asked what worlds we were dealing with." Broker paused for a moment to reach for a drink from a passing tray. "We've been approached by the Illyrian Palatinate and the Lothian League. They're interested in obtaining the services of several units." His previously genial smile turned cold. "I suspect they're concerned about the Circinus Federation, and justly so. If contract negotiations are successful, I believe we'll be dealing with President McIntyre's Black Warriors eventually. It will be interesting to see if they measure up to their reputation." He took a sip of his drink, then the warmth returned to his face as he continued. "Herotitus has also made quiet inquiries as to our availability. Again, we're willing to exchange defensive services in return for extra-territoriality."

"Not money or trade items?" asked Tulliver.

"Sometimes political legitimacy can be more valuable than cash, Major."

"Point taken," conceded the Wolfnet officer.

"We're also making arrangements for a large purchase from the Magistracy of Canopus. The _Pike_ support tank is far more useful than the Houses of the Inner Sphere give it credit for. We intend to purchase several hundred of them."

The statement, and the matter-of-fact tone it was made in, caused every Dragoon that overheard it to wonder. A few, less controlled, nearly filled the air with their drinks. What sort of faction could afford to buy that many tanks, and pass it off as a "spur of the moment" purchase? Even the Dragoons would hesitate, somewhat.

Broker, meanwhile, grinned impishly. "We might even commission some orders from Blackwell Industries."

Colonel Wolf mulled that thought over for a moment, then nodded. "Under the right circumstances, such an order would be warmly welcomed."

"But how would you crew them?" asked Tulliver. "Do you have that many people available?"

"Ah, Major, that would be telling, wouldn't it?" chuckled Jared. "For what it's worth, however, anyone willing to sign a contract with Executive Outcomes may freely choose to accept a position in a tank crew as a means of working towards the eventual goal of obtaining a battlemech. We intend to make that quite clear in our recruiting statements."

"Many people won't be able to maintain a 'mech if they had one," she countered.

"Again, true, Major. But that too will be made clear in our statements. I suspect we'll enrage quite a few lawyers with our refusal to use fine print and dense verbiage, but we _will_ make things clear well before anyone signs up. Additionally, individuals with a damaged 'family' mech can earn repairs, even reconstruction, of that 'mech by serving time as infantry or armor. Not everyone will succeed, nor will we guarantee success. We will guarantee only that they have the opportunity."

"Fair enough," she agreed. "You can't have it all. If you did, where would you put it?"

"Heh. A point to you, Major!"

~*~

Even a quiet party could take some time to wind down, and it was late in the evening when Colonel Wolf retired to his personal quarters. He didn't head for his bed, though. Something was bothering him, a thought in the back of his mind, and he knew that if he couldn't bring it forward, he'd never get any restful sleep.

Often that was a gift. Tonight, it felt like a nuisance. A damned, frustrating nuisance.

Something Broker had said.

He'd given his surety that everything he'd said was the truth, though he refused to say everything. Sensible precaution. Jaime would have done the same thing. But there was something there... something he'd said... something _in_ what he'd said...

Wolf moved over to his personal terminal, opened up several files and began to dig.

_Something you refused to share with the Star League. Something that let you settle worlds without 'the usual difficulties'._ Ryan's name had been mentioned. Wolf ran a search for every historical mention of the Ryan Ice Cartel and it's founder, Rudolph Ryan, only to see links to hundreds of megabytes of reference material appear on his screen. Irritating. If he couldn't somehow fine-tune his search, he'd be at the keyboard til sunrise.

Wait.

_Something you don't share. What _sort_ of things do people refuse to share? Ryan was a businessman. What does a _business_ refuse to share? They refuse to share trade secrets. _Technological _trade secrets in particular._

He refined his search, found a centuries-old video clip of Rudolf Ryan addressing a group of investors, and opened it. It showed the innovative businessman illustrating how his system would work to move entire ice asteroids from system to system.

Wolf finished listening to Ryan's speech, then closed the file. Moving slowly, carefully, methodically, he then proceeded to erase all traces of his search, even that he'd conducted a search at all.

After he was done, he reached for the small glass of whiskey sitting near the keyboard, only to notice the faint tremor in his hands.

_Not surprising,_ he thought. _Not surprising at all, when you've just learned of the existence of what might possibly be the greatest feat of macro-engineering in the entire history of the human race. What surprises me is that I'm not racing about the room screaming _"Eureka!" _at the top of my voice._

_My God, if that's really how they did it... those magnificent bastards! If General Kerensky had only known. What he could have done with this... _ Wolf paused for a moment, and shook his head. _But then, if the General had known, he'd likely have gone to war with them as well. They _are_ separatists, isolationists._

He nodded in satisfaction. _And that tells me who they probably are. Or probably were, that is. There's only one group in the Inner Sphere with access to that sort of technology, the resources to take proper advantage of it, and the political willpower to use it in that particular way. _He thought of the Clans encountering these people, and laughed _very_ quietly to himself. _They've had nearly a thousand years to be apart from the rest of humanity, and they apparently like it that way. If the ilKhans choose to butt heads with them over their chosen lifestyle, I'd wager a Bloodname that these Kyfhons will come out the winners. And that's very likely to be exactly what Broker and his people want to happen._

He finished stripping off his uniform and prepared for bed. Now he could sleep and sleep well.

Tomorrow, it would be _Broker_ receiving a knowing smirk as he embarked for Crossing. And that thought was quite pleasant for Jaime to dwell upon as he drifted off to sleep.

His dreams were filled with stars.

~*~

The jumpship _Lysander Spooner_ was returning to Crossing far more slowly than it had left. When questioned, Broker had replied that now the contract with Wolf's Dragoons had been signed, there was nowhere near the initial urgency to the matter. Instead, the _Spooner_ was making one jump a day, and allowing the drive to cool fully before making the next.

Snord had asked further about that, and Jared informed him that the current jump core of the _Spooner_ was capable of six successive jumps without any cooling whatsoever before it would fail catastrophically.

The fact that Broker had used the word "current" made Snord wonder. Not that Cranston was fool enough to go prying around an active jump core. You couldn't pay him enough for that. No one could. Presumably, that was a good way to die. People presumed that instead of knowing it for certain, because in the few cases where someone was reported to have done that just before a jump was to take place, the jump ship never reappeared. Not in _this_ reality, anyway...

So it wasn't at all hard to contain his curiosity. Wanting to stay alive was a pretty effective deterrent.

What _really_ annoyed him was the knowing smile that had been on Colonel Wolf's face when they'd embarked on his _Union_ for the trip back to the jump ship. It all but shouted "I know something you don't!", and if there was anything about Jaime Wolf that annoyed Snord, it was his habit of enjoying little secrets at the expense of his friends and associates. Cranston just _knew_ that years from now, he'd discover what it was, and the Wolf brothers would manage to laugh their asses off. Worst of all, Cranston knew that however annoying the secret was, he'd also know that the brothers would be absolutely correct in having kept it from him at the time. Because they'd done it to him before, damn them.

There just weren't words in the English language for how frustrating that could be.

At the moment they were waiting for the arrival of another EO jumpship, the _Peter LaNague_, with a supply of freshly charged modular batteries. This time, they'd be allowed to see the delivery ship. On the way to New Valencia, the _Spooner_ had rolled to block the view. Now, though, Broker was allowing them to see the incoming ship as a gesture of trust.

A distant sparkle through the porthole signaled her arrival, and the shimmering speck quickly grew. By the time it was recognizable as a spacecraft, eyes were widening all around.

"That's... impossible," said Sneede. "That's a _Wagon Wheel!_"

"It can't be," replied Windall. "The last of the _Wagon Wheels_ were destroyed when the Tauran Concordat was crushed during the Reunification War, four hundred years ago."

"It's not a _Wagon Wheel_," Snord said authoritatively. "The proportions are wrong." He eyed the approaching ship closely. "Too many dropship collars on the grav decks. I can see at least four. The _Wagon Wheel_ only had two."

"If it's symmetrical," pointed out Terry, "that means it has eight collars. Four on each grav deck. Damn. It's huge. At least twice the size of a _Wheel_. Maybe more."

Cranston took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Irregulars, I have a suggestion, not an order."

"Sir?"

"I suggest we go to our cabins, have some drinks, and forget we ever saw anything today. I suspect we'd find it much healthier for us in the long run."

The team thought about that for a bit, then they all quietly left the observation deck. They didn't look back.

~*~

Cranston had been politely informed that Broker would like to see him, informally, if Cranston could make the time for it. As the request was so polite, he'd offered to do it right away.

When he reached the man's cabin, he had to struggle to keep from bursting into raucous laughter. Jared's desk was as covered with papers as his own had been on the trip out from Crossing, and Broker was glaring at the mess as if trying to force it to spontaneously combust from sheer eye power alone. _Schadenfreude_ alone made Cranston smirk widely. "Paperwork troubles?" he laughed.

Broker sighed. "Paperwork generated by stupid pirates, I'm afraid." He eyed Cranston thoughtfully. "Can you use a somewhat dented _Leopard_ and a pair of medium mechs, all in need of repair?"

Snord blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" The strange statement, coming out of nowhere, had thrown him slightly.

"Stupid pirates, I'm afraid," grimaced Broker. "Apparently they heard that a construction battalion was on the ground at New St. Andrews, and thinking it was a ripe and easy target, made a run at it with a pair of _Leopards_ and an odd assortment of junkyard 'mechs. I suppose they thought that a construction unit couldn't fight back." His grimace turned vicious. "Their error, though they didn't live long enough to realize that."

"I wouldn't have thought that a construction battalion could put up that much of a fight against eight 'mechs, even bandit mechs," said Cranston.

"They thought the same," noted Jared. He glared back down at the mess on his desk. "Where did I... there." He picked up one folder and read from it. "Of the eight 'mechs that participated in the attack, only two survived in any condition that could be called 'repairable', a _Vindicator_ and a _Dragon_. You want them?"

Snord couldn't help but ask. "What happened to the other six?"

"The boys and girls in the SeaBees were a little irritated. By the time their commanders got them calmed down, there wasn't much left of the other six 'mechs but scrap suitable for blast furnace recycling, I'm afraid. As for the second _Leopard_, well, it had a traffic accident."

"Traffic accident?"

"It failed to observe the air traffic regulations over our base, and turned straight into a wall of LRMs. By my people's reckoning, that's a traffic accident."

"Ouch."

"So, do you want the _Vindicator_ and _Dragon_?" repeated Jared.

"I'd like them, but even after what you've paid me, and I know you've been more than generous, I don't think I can afford another two mechs, let alone a second dropship."

"Not cash, just trade. I'll let you have these two mechs in return for three Dispossessed recruits. The dropship will cost you the equivalent of a _Leopard_ crew in Dispossessed, along with one favor to be called in later."

"Nothing I'd find morally objectionable, or that requires me to turn on my employer of the moment?"

"So stipulated."

"Well bargained and done, then."

After some further discussion of contractual points and how much a Dispossessed 'mech warrior might be worth in terms of military hardware, Snord left the cabin whistling cheerfully. When they reached Crossing, he'd have to look into that contract with House Marik to try and retake Rochelle from the Steiners.

He'd have to be careful, though. He didn't trust Janos as far as he could throw the man.

Still, he had his people, the gear to equip them, a (semi) trusted ally, freedom from debt (at the moment), and a bright future. Things were definitely looking up for Snord's Irregulars.


	2. Chapter 2

"Report."

"TacStrike is completely operational, sir. The incident with the bandits merely served to confirm that. We stand ready to take on all comers. All that is left is to accept security and defense contracts in the Periphery while building up our numbers of native troops. We don't even have to hunt for the pirates. They're coming to us."

"Excellent. IntellSec?"

"We have people inside every major House of the Inner Sphere. As yet, we have no one inside ComStar. Their pseudo-religious fantasy tends to attract fanatics, and that can pose a problem, sir. Their irrationality makes them dangerously unpredictable."

"Acceptable for now. Work on that when you can. Contacts inside mercenary units?"

"Rising with every successful hire of a Dispossessed mechwarrior."

"Good. TransComm?"

"Building our ships DOWN to Inner Sphere standards was something of a difficulty, sir. We're arranging for several memory cores to be 'found' by people allied to TacStrike or IntellSec, to be handed over to the intelligence services of the various Houses. That should allay suspicions for a time, as well as putting ComStar at odds with them. But it won't hold forever, sir.

"Perhaps not. But we don't need forever, we only need fifty years. Less than that, if certain people can be swayed to our side."

"Yes, sir. On the communications side, the relays are in place. We're ready for any attempt by ComStar to interdict us. Additionally, Project Freeplay is two years from completion - we'll be able to take simultaneous action throughout every planet in the Inner Sphere, as well as the Periphery. Once it's ready, we'll be able to take ComStar down like the rotten tree that it is."

Broker steepled his fingers on the table before him. "Well done, people. We might actually come through this thing _without_ having to commit acts of genocide."

~*~

The battle for Rochelle had been murderous. The planet had become one giant muddy battlefield, a savage meat-grinder that swallowed entire units and spat them back out with casualty rates bordering on seventy percent. Which was probably why Captain-General Janos Marik was throwing mercenary units at it like cheap munitions. After all, if they didn't survive, he didn't have to pay them.

That _had_ been the possibility facing Snord. With the huge debt to House Marik, he might have been forced to simply fight on Rochelle for nothing more than the canceling of his unit's debt. Thanks to Jared Broker, that had changed. And old Janos didn't like that one bit. But he was short on combat units, and Cranston had made a sharp deal - he and his unit would take half pay, for one year, in return for all the salvage they could garner from the battlefield. (And Snord had made damned certain that the wording of the contract defined "salvage" as "anything even vaguely historical, collectable, or just plain rare". Janos would regret that later, he would...)

The fighting had been insane, and entire mercenary companies had been wiped out. Many more had shattered, their leadership dead or missing. And the Mariks hadn't helped any with their bland statements of "the ammunition supplies would arrive any day now."

The _Banshee'_s had saved the Irregular's collective asses.

Cranston's luck had brought them through the battle with very little damage, and the PPC's of the _Banshees_, along with the _Dragon_, the _Vindicator_, and Walmar's _Warhammer_, had often been the deciding point. Several times, the Irregulars had faked running out of ammo and falling back, only to pull Steiner units into chasing them - straight into an ambush of six particle projection cannons.

When the Steiners finally wised up to that and began refusing to take the bait, Snord simply turned the ambushes around, setting the two _Chameleons_ to race around the battlefield and hit them from behind just moments after he'd staged his 'retreat.'

He was just very glad for the popularity of autocannons among the Steiner 'mechwarriors on Rochelle. Autocannons were low heat and dead simple to build, but their dependence on ammunition could be a crippling weakness on the battlefield when your supply lines were cut.

They'd held out for the entire year. They'd helped drive the Steiners from Rochelle.

Then that backstabbing bastard Janos announced that he was going to rebuild his 'mech forces by confiscating every surviving 'mech on the face of the planet, even those privately owned. The Irregulars, who had by now grown considerably larger with the addition of 'mechwarriors from other, shattered units, immediately accused Janos of breach of contract. Only to have the Captain-General laugh in their faces. Janos claimed that there had been no such contract and if the Mercenary Board of Review claimed one did exist, that merely proved that the board members had accepted a bribe from Snord. Then he ordered all non-Marik units to hand over their 'mechs and accept a transfer into a Free Worlds League infantry unit, where they would serve until their debts to the FWL were repaid. All League units on Rochelle were ordered to enforce that order on the 'mercs.

But Marik had made one small error. He'd been told that Snord had insured the contract with ComStar _through_ the Mercenary Review Board, a process that was prohibitively expensive, but one that guaranteed that a hearing over breach of contract accusations would take place near-instantly and with the full authority of ComStar behind it. Janos refused to believe that any small-time merc would go to that much trouble and cost. His mistake.

An enraged Captain-General had gone red in the face when informed by an aid that a ComStar representative had arrived at court to notify him that the Free Worlds League - and Janos in person - were being served for breach of contract. And that he could choose to pay the required fine, or be subjected to further penalties.

It hadn't been that long since the Interdict of 2837 CE. Less than two hundred years, in fact. While it had passed from living memory, it still glared balefully from the pages of history books and corporate accounting records. Janos sullenly, grudgingly, reluctantly acquiesced.

It didn't prevent him from trying to cut corners, though. The contract was now void, therefore Snord's Irregulars were in League-controlled space without the Captain-General's express permission. He ordered them _out_ of the Free Worlds League, and gave them a time limit that he hoped would force them to leave the vast majority of the salvage behind. Then he instructed all League forces to open fire on the Irregulars the moment the deadline expired, while sending Snord a back-channel message saying that if he'd just comply and hand over the men, the mechs and the salvage, Janos would generously see to it that Snord would become the commander of a small Marik unit somewhere on a minor Periphery border world. A perfectly acceptable compromise, from Janos' point of view. Any minor 'merc leader would leap at the opportunity such a gracious offer represented. Who wouldn't?

Given Snord's fascination with history, it wasn't that much of a surprise that his reply was a one-word message that had been used once before, by a general on old Terra. Then he proceeded to gather up all the 'mechwarriors and functional mechs he could. He didn't want a war with Janos, but maybe he didn't have to have one. He sent a second message through ComStar, then sat tight.

~*~

Janos Marik's hopes of a cheap and easy salvage operation were dashed seventy-two hours later, when three jumpships ostensibly registered to Executive Outcomes leapt into the Rochelle system. The _Monolith_ was carrying nine empty _Mammoth_-class dropships, while the two _Merchants_ who'd jumped in with her had empty collars. The _Mammoths_ immediately headed for Rochelle where they, much to Marik's irritation, began to board all of the mercenary troops who wanted to leave before Janos could confiscate their battlemechs. The Industrial 'mechs carried by the _Mammoths_ freely aided those 'mechwarriors whose mechs were too damaged to make it to the dropships under their own power. Meanwhile, a surprised Cranston and his people were quickly taking their pick of the salvage, loading it on to their own two dropships, and preparing to link up with one of the _Merchants_. He'd expected some help, obviously. But not quite _this_ much. Not that he was going to object to it, though.

Marik had almost choked on his own astonishment and anger when he was told that his expected salvage was quickly vanishing into the cavernous holds of _Mammoths_ that weren't the property of the League.

Then came the news that forces from the Federated Suns were pressing forward on several disputed border worlds, and that the Davion troops were making significant advances into League territory. Janos had no other choice than to divert the units he'd dispatched to 'discipline' the mercenaries to other, more urgent battlefields, allowing the survivors to depart unmolested, at their leisure.

In a final gesture of insolence, Snord used the extra time to cherry-pick the battlefields, selecting only the very best salvage and leaving behind only hulks that would cost more to rebuild than they were worth in battle.

In the burnt-out cockpit of a ruined League _Battlemaster_, he'd left an envelope addressed to the Captain-General. Found by increasingly desperate salvage crews, it was forwarded to Janos unopened. Rumor had it that when Marik read the contents, he'd thrown the letter into the nearest fireplace and personally stirred the ashes. He'd then given orders that the Irregulars be taken into custody, their mechs confiscated for funds due, and Snord himself shot on sight.

It didn't help. Snord's Irregulars had vanished.

~*~

Two months later, the Irregulars reappeared, rebuilt and refreshed, as did a number of the other 'merc units that had been so violently savaged on Rochelle. Mercs who hadn't signed up with the Irregulars or tried to reform their own units had, apparently, signed up with Executive Outcomes, much to the irritation of Janos Marik. (Who, by now, was beginning to audibly snarl whenever Cranston's name was mentioned in his presence.)

This only made it that much more amusing to all other parties involved when Katrina Steiner stepped forward and offered the Irregulars a contract, requesting that Snord meet with her representative on the planet Clinton.

Fascinated by the unit that had resisted her forces so well on Rochelle, the Archon took a personal interest in Snord and his collection of loners, misfits, outcasts and rebels, offering him a contract unique in mercenary history.

The pay was, again, low. But the Irregulars could pick and choose the locations of their assignments, and would receive a permanent base on Clinton from which they could stage, and to which they could retreat. House Steiner would also provide repair parts, or failing that, pay for parts acquired elsewhere.

Cranston later learned that Archon Katrina had agreed to that last part due to her curiosity about the nearly unknown and apparently well (too well!) equipped private security company, Executive Outcomes. Rumors had begun to spread about EO's access to lostech, and every House in the Inner Sphere had tried without success to penetrate the firm in hopes of somehow finding their source of lost technology that they might claim it for their own. So far, Snord and his unit were the only people who'd gotten close to the company, and Katrina felt that if befriending Snord got them any closer to the mysterious company, it would be well worth it at twice the price.

Snord had kept a close eye on EO, full well expecting them to do the same. Friendship only went so far, after all. But despite the secrets he was keeping for them, even he was surprised by several of the actions they undertook.

Brandon O'Leary, grandson of the last owner of Mountain Wolf Battlemechs, had been searching for someone, anyone, to fund an attempt to rebuild his grandfather's company on Alpheratz in the Outworlds Alliance. Much to the surprise of everyone watching, Executive Outcomes had stepped forward with an offer of financial assistance in return, not for cash, but a portion of the output, enabling O'Leary to increase the planned size of the factory by several production lines. When the first MLN-1A _Merlins_ began to walk off the assembly lines in 3010, fully twenty percent were earmarked for EO, with the rest selling quite briskly to the Outworlds Alliance, and to mercenary outfits across the Inner Sphere. And with the financial backing of EO, Mr. O'Leary then contacted the Magistracy of Canopus, offering to build a second 'mech production facility there.

The Magistracy was ecstatic, as the heaviest mech they were able to natively produce was a _Shadow Hawk_, and only a very few of those. The rest of what little they were able to build within their own borders were _Wasps_, _Stingers_, and _Locust_, all light recon 'mechs. Anything else had to be imported. The thought of having access to a line of heavy 'mechs, even a design as basic as that of the _Merlin_, was enough to bring Tamara Centrella and the Magistracy to the bargaining table in a hurry. They'd broken ground for the factory on Luxen a mere three months after the initial meeting. It hadn't hurt that EO was purchasing _Pike_ support tanks from the Magistracy in bulk. House Centrella welcomed the inflow of cash with open arms. _As well as with other body parts_, Cranston snorted quietly to himself.

Of course, this _also_ meant that the intelligence agencies of every House were frantic for insider information on this upstart security company, Executive Outcomes. Information they simply weren't getting. Attempts to slip people directly into the firm weren't successful. Personnel hired from the Inner Sphere knew only operationally immediate information. All of the management staff who might have in-depth knowledge appeared to be from the same Deep Periphery state that Broker hailed from, and were unapologetically stiff-lipped about where, exactly, that state was located. Bribery had failed, as there seemed to be little to bribe them with. Their pay was excellent, and when offered rank and position in the Inner Sphere, they all turned them down, professing a deep desire to return "home" (wherever that was) once they left their positions with EO.

Massive amounts of gold, platinum, iridium, osmium, and palladium were flooding the markets of the Inner Sphere, along with impressive quantities of germanium, vanadium and tungsten. When EO wanted to buy something, they simply paid for it in rare and precious metals. If you refused to accept them, they'd quietly and politely take their business elsewhere, leaving you to deal with your business rivals, rivals who were suddenly growing flush with mineral wealth. Mining corporations across the Inner Sphere were screaming at the top of their collective lungs, demanding to know who these people were, and where the hell so much refined metal was coming from... and why weren't _they_ the ones in charge of this new wealth?!

This resulted in the amusing situation of Cranston having more mechwarriors applying to join the Irregulars than he knew what to do with. Word had gotten out that the head of EO had an amiable relationship with Snord's Irregulars. Agents from LIC, the Davion MIIO, the Kuritan ISF, the Maskirovka, SAFE, and ComStar's ROM were clustered around his unit like flies gathering near rotting fruit. And since it had become well known that the Irregulars adopted loners, misfits, outcasts and rebels, the five Houses had dug deeply into their small collections of highly skilled, yet expendable and slightly less than sane mechwarriors in a determined attempt to infiltrate Cranston's people as one step further along the way towards their eventual goal of infiltrating Executive Outcomes.

Cranston himself had been made several offers, including a minor dukedom. The fact that Broker seemed aware of his problems in this area made it all the more amusing.

If he laughed any harder, he'd probably have hurt himself.

~*~

The battles on New Kyoto had been both brutal and amusing. Brutal because of the pounding the world was taking at the hands of the Free Worlds League. Amusing in that everyone attributed Cranston's victories to dumb luck. Between what information he received from Wolfnet and what Jake could dig up for him from the library he carried around with him, making things seem like dumb luck was painfully easy at times. Was it so terribly difficult to understand that someone with an obsession with history might actually _study_ the targets he had to strike? Snord was still receiving indirect intelligence from Wolfnet and was quite aware of the supply dump that the Marik troops had tried to hide inside the city of Kirwanal. Here he was, practically hip-deep in spies from every agency in the Inner Sphere, and they couldn't see that he had spies of his own?

Maybe these idiots _did_ deserve to be crushed by the Crusader Clans.

Katrina Steiner had estimated that the defense of New Kyoto would take at least eight months. With the additional 'mechs from Broker and the mechwarriors he'd picked up after the retreat from Rochelle, Cranston was able to defeat the Marik forces in eight _weeks_. And doing it while busy looting a vault holding artworks from the New Kyoto museums that had been hidden since the fall of the Star League.

Okay, at least House _Marik_ deserved to be smashed by the Clans. A pity that the idiots were on the wrong side of the Inner Sphere from the shortest possible invasion route. Ah, well. Perhaps something could be arranged later on.

He checked his notes. Deb H'chu's _Thunderbolt_ had taken quite a bit of damage to its right torso, and normally, it wouldn't have been possible to repair it without removing the SRM launcher there. She'd gone after yet another _Battlemaster_. He sighed. He'd have called her obsessed, but in this unit that would be the pot calling the kettle black. Fortunately, he'd just gotten a shipment of 'mechs from EO in return for sending some more Dispossessed their way, and if need be, they could swap out the entire right torso of Deb's mech. (He'd offered to simply replace the mech outright, but the woman steadfastly refused to surrender her beloved ride, and his daughter backed her best friend up on that.)

The Irregulars were growing fast. From what had begun as a simple three lance company (command, attack, and recon), he'd rapidly expanded to a full two companies, with Shorty in command of the second, as well as a full platoon of techs to maintain the mechs and dropships. It didn't hurt that EO apparently had no qualms about their financing - while the funds Colonel Wolf provided had to be carefully laundered, Broker simply handed over money and supplies in return for potential recruits, and told overly persistent questioners that yes, he was helping fund the Irregulars, and did they have a problem with that?

The best part - the most _entertaining_ part - was that even though it was the absolute truth, the paranoia-driven spies from the various intelligence agencies simply couldn't believe it. They chose to ignore the facts because they were "too obvious", and went on wild hunts for something more, some deeper secrets they could unearth and carry to their superiors in triumph. Cranston had an ongoing game with Jared - they were exchanging letters in plain text, filled with obscure phrases that rang with ominous meaning... and meant absolutely nothing. It was hilarious to send one off and wait for it to be intercepted. The sudden stir and unrest amongst the spies after each letter was sent was far more entertaining than any professional comedian could ever hope to be.

The 'mechs provided tended to be bland, older designs, for the most part, but mechs were mechs, and the gift of mental freedom that came with them was invaluable. Most mechwarriors these days lived with the horrid gnawing fear of becoming Dispossessed. That was something the Irregulars - at least for the moment - didn't have to worry about. A _Chameleon_ or a _Merlin_ might not look impressive on the parade ground or when passing in review, but you could fight them on the battlefield, and that's what mattered.

They'd also picked up several more fighters and the pilots to go with them. It had cost to put them back into fighting condition, but it was worth it. Few but the largest mercenary units had organic air support, and employers paid well for units that had it.

His Steiner liaison officer had informed him of the contract to raid the planet Wing. He looked forward to it. Jake had informed him of the famous book collection on that small world, and the fact that many of Marik's front-line units were dug in there merely made the opportunity that much more enticing. He could give Janos two black eyes for the price of one. Now there was a bargain.

And he just couldn't pass up a deal like that.

~*~

"Report, Carter."

The head of IntellSec nodded. "While direct infiltration of ComStar ranges from difficult to the outright impossible, their cultish attitude has had an interesting side effect, sir. They do hire mercenaries, on occasion, and their self-righteous posturing often alienates those same mercenaries. We've been able to get second and third-hand information from them that's been confirmed by independent observation. It's imperfect, but it works. And unlike the Houses of the Inner Sphere, _we_ can afford the prices they're asking."

Broker chuckled. "If they only knew what gold actually means to us."

Carter smirked back at his employer. "Sir, if they knew that, half of their leadership would be dead of coronaries or strokes, while the other half would be headed our way on the first available jumpships with every military unit at their disposal and _jack_ the expense."

Jared's smile flicked off as fast as it had appeared, replaced with a look of flat determination. "I know, Edison. And I know that they'd end up butchering the golden goose - no pun intended - that they'd seek to capture. That's what we're here to prevent. Whatever the cost. Tell me what you need, and if it's at all possible, I'll get it for you."

"Understood, sir." Now it was Carter's turn to frown. "You won't particularly like this one, but it's the best plan my people have to break serious intel out of ComStar."

"Go ahead."

"We need a leak. Something not merely tempting, but outright irresistible. Something that will hit ComStar right where they live, in their self-perceived technological superiority."

"I see. And what is it that you want permission to leak?"

"My namesake, sir." Carter tapped the shoulder holster he wore.

Jared raised an eyebrow. "You want to leave a Winchester-Edison just lying around? You think ComStar is that stupid?"

"No sir, I think they're that greedy. And that their greed is clouding what would otherwise be adequate tactical minds." Edison carefully drew the heavy weapon from his holster with his off hand, observing the traditional niceties among fellow Kyfhon. He set it down on the desktop with a heavy clunk to illustrate his point. "When they try to tear this apart to learn our 'secrets', it will blow their tiny little minds."

"A bit on the crude side, old friend. Machiavelli would be appalled, don't you think?"

"Sir, after the years we've spent here in this barbaric backwater of the galaxy, I've come to the conclusion that to these people, 'crude' is defined as 'I'll hit you with a ten kilo hammer, instead of a five kilo mallet.'"

"Come now, Ed," laughed Broker. "Don't hold back, tell me how you really feel."

Edison sighed. "These people are slowly driving me insane, Jared. I'm having moments when I think we should just use a few thousand Bethe-cycle devices on them and go _home_."

Jared eyed his friend closely. "That's ugly. You _are_ tired, Ed. Do you want to take a sabbatical? Your understudy can handle things for a year."

"No, sir. Or at least not until my people can pull this one off. If we can convince ComStar they've been successful in 'stealing' some of our tech, the metallurgical analysis alone will misdirect them for years."

"All right, Ed. Do it. But once they fall for it, _if_ they fall for it-"

"They will, sir."

"All right. _When_ they fall for it, I want your assistant to handle the fallout, and you're going to take your contractual eight weeks. Is that clear?"

"Eight weeks. Yes, sir."

Something in Edison's bright tone made Jared suspicious. He passed a hand over the terminal on his desk, then blinked at the heads-up display. "Cute, Eddie, real cute. I almost missed that one."

An even brighter tone. Butter wouldn't have melted in Carter's mouth. "Sir?"

"It's eight weeks a year, Ed. _Every_ year. It would appear someone's been skipping vacations again."

"Oh, damn," swore Edison. "Didn't think you'd catch that."

"Well, at least it proved that I've been getting exactly what I've been paying for - the slipperiest bastard in the business. After all, what good is a spy master if he's not the sneakiest snake in the valley, eh?"

"Thank you, sir."

"But that doesn't mean you can slack on your down time, Eddie. Eight weeks a _year_, and you've skipped three years. I can count, and so can you."

"May I at least maintain oversight, sir?" grumbled the intelligence expert.

"You may. But if you do, I'll insist on a regular psych evaluation of your stress levels. And no sneaking around behind my back on this condition. Contractual obligations, Eddie. I don't want to lose you to a burn-out."

"Fair enough, sir. Damn it all. Why don't _you_ have to take vacations?"

"Because I'm the boss, Eddie. I get to _make_ the rules."

"Unfair, I say, unfair!"

"Take it up at the next contract negotiations, Eddie," chuckled Jared. "Who knows, maybe this time you'll win."

"Maybe. But I'd still rather convince you to cancel 'Long Knife'. I can't provide enough intelligence to carry it off with one hundred percent success, sir."

"We've had this discussion before. We need him. We need _them_. And the only way we can earn enough trust with him before the deadline is 'Long Knife', Eddie."

"We'll have to put a 'vat on the ground, sir. If we lose one of those..."

"I know, Ed." Jared sighed tiredly. "Which is why I'm giving you this." He passed a thin crystal wafer over to his intelligence chief. "Authorization and tactical release codes for _Thunderball_. If it looks like the 'vat might be taken..."

"I assume you want an all-volunteer crew in the dropship, sir?"

"You assume correctly, Ed. And no, you're not going to be one of them."

"Sir, I-"

"Damn it, Ed. I _know_ what you're going to say. That you won't request that one of your men do something you won't do. That's the worst part of this business. That we HAVE to ask this of them, and smile when they step bravely forward, no matter how much it tears our guts out to see it happen. We will train them, we will teach them, and we will send them into the fire instead of ourselves. And then we'll go home and try to drink our brains out from the guilt. And the worst part, Ed, is this - that they'll agree with us that _they_ should be the ones to go, not us."

"This sucks."

"I know, Eddie. And all I can offer you is this." Jared opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. "Real Terran-brewed Jack Daniel's. You don't want to know what it cost. My assistant has her orders. _And_ that antique Crookes & Thomson powergun of hers. Anything that tries to get past her to my office door had better be ten feet tall, with fangs. And armor. Tonight, we're going to practice for all the drinks we're going to have to take later." He set the bottle on his desk, followed by a pair of glasses. "That's an order."

~*~

Everyone knew that ComStar kept secrets.

They kept the secrets of the various Successor States, rather more or less, for a price. Everyone knew that.

They kept their own secrets, about technology and about their own political agenda, and did so far more effectively. Fewer people knew that, but there were still some who did.

What only a handful of people knew, was that ComStar was keeping a secret from itself. An institutional lie that lived at the very heart of ComStar.

They claimed to be preserving the knowledge of the Star League.

They were lying. And ironically, most of them didn't even know it.

The Terran Hegemony had done its utmost to preserve its technological superiority over the rest of the Inner Sphere, even after the Star League was formed. The latest and greatest technology was reserved for the Royal units. Regular units received standard technology. Member states received technology inferior even to that.

When the Hegemony burned under the hand of Stephen Amaris, most of their cutting edge technology burned with it. Of what little remained, the majority left with General Kerensky. The vaunted "Star League" technology that ComStar inherited consisted, for the most part, of the second-line equipment reserved for use by the Hegemony's Regular units. Jerome Blake knew that, but could do nothing about it. Libraries had burned, universities had been bombed, scientists and researchers had been murdered. Blake had to be grateful for what few scraps were left, and had to jealously guard those scraps from the grasping hands of the desperate Successor States. Doing so had been his greatest success, and his greatest failure.

He had obtained an edge for the organization he had created, a razor-thin technological edge, an edge that ComStar could lose at any moment.

_That_ was the lie that lived in the heart of ComStar. And the greatest fear of those who knew the lie for what it was.

The men and women who would run ComStar after his death chose to preserve that slim technological edge through bribery, sabotage, and murder.

Historically, men judge others by their own acts. If a man is willing to steal from others, he lives in fear that others will steal from him. Murderers fear being murdered themselves. ComStar's greatest fear was that the technological advances that Kerensky had taken with him would one day return in the hands of others, making ComStar itself obsolete.

So when rumors of new weapons of types never before seen had surfaced, weapons that even the Star League hadn't possessed, ComStar felt an understandable tremor of fear work its way down the backs of the persons responsible for maintaining that edge.

The return of cutting edge Star League technology would be bad. _Improved_ Star League weapons would be worse. Weapons that even the League hadn't considered possible - that was a nightmare.

And it was a nightmare that was keeping the lights on late at night in ROM headquarters on Terra.

The modular weapons systems that Blackwell Corporation had fielded were bad enough. Vehicles such as the _Badger_ tracked transport and the _Bandit_ hovercraft used design concepts that were worryingly advanced, something even the Star League hadn't managed to field before the Coup, but the materials, methods and weapons used to build them were all standard, and had been in common use for hundreds of years. It was merely the way they'd been combined that concerned ComStar.

Executive Outcomes, on the other hand...

Rumors of advanced sensor systems, weapons that produced one-shot 'mech kills and super jump drives were reaching ROM. But that's all they were. Rumors. No matter how large the bribes, or how vicious the threats, solid facts weren't forthcoming. The few people willing to talk usually spoke to ComStar once. Then they had an unfortunate tendency to vanish soon afterwards. In particularly original ways. One such talkative person had been found on Tharkad. And Luthien. And New Avalon. And Atreus. DNA analysis had been required to identify all of the pieces.

It therefore seemed obvious to ROM that less... delicate... methods of obtaining clear intelligence on these matters had to be undertaken. Examples of the technologies involved had to be taken intact, for analysis by ComStar researchers who would then deliver their assessments of the dangers (or lack thereof) posed by those technologies to ComStar's dominance of the Inner Sphere.

And if a threat did exist, well, then... that's what the Com Guards were for, after all.

There would be no need to use other, far more dangerous, resources.

Not yet.

~*~

Piracy had dropped dramatically since the arrival of EO in the 'southwest' sector of the Periphery. The Illyrain Palatinate and the Lothian League were avoided at all costs. Pirates who went in never came back out. Their mechs (or pieces of them), however, turned up quite often in the hands of Snord's Irregulars. If Snord's people weren't using the 'mechs themselves, they'd often sell the machines freely to any Dispossessed mechwarrior.

Never to one of the House forces though.

The pirates had scattered, some heading coreward towards the worlds of the former Rim World Republic. Many of them merged with the bands already there and became a further curse upon the merchant houses of the Lyran Commonwealth. Others fled rimward, towards the Magistracy, thinking it an easy target. They apparently hadn't gotten the word about the Canopians upgrading their forces with the money and 'mechs that EO had indirectly made available. Most of them died at the hands of enraged defenders who finally had the weapons they needed to fight back. The few survivors of those bands eventually fled to the Tortuga Dominions.

The smart ones had fled to the Tortuga Dominions from the start. Pledging their loyalty to "Lord" Kalvin Bar-Dyness, the current monarch of the Dominions, they and their ships and mechs were warmly welcomed by a regime that could only survive through loot and plunder.

The 'unofficial' pirates, the Black Warriors of the Circinus Federation had suffered a continuous stream of setbacks. Once an EO unit set up on a world, it simply wasn't possible to enter it to commit an act of piracy. Or rather, it was possible to enter. No one had yet succeeded in leaving. President 'Bob' McIntyre had lost six lances of battlemechs learning that lesson.

The Marion Hegemony hadn't needed to learn that lesson. They'd carefully observed the fleeing and the dead, had requested talks with EO over what behavior was acceptable and what was not, and had settled into a somewhat uncomfortable business relationship. With the restoration and repair of the few jumpships belonging to the Lothians and Illyrians, it was more profitable to make deals than it was to make war. The fact that EO paid their employees in precious metals helped make that trade more palatable to the Marions. EO was paying from four grams of gold a week to the average infantryman to a healthy fifteen grams a week to a skilled combat engineer. Mechwarriors who were skilled in their craft could expect as much as twenty grams a week, with combat pay on top of that.

The flood of precious metal had people paying attention. And feeling cooperative for the first time in centuries. If violence couldn't gain them a share of that wealth - and the dead pirates had conveniently proven that it couldn't, a number of times - then perhaps cooperation might.

The Lyrans were right. Gold _could_ cover a multitude of sins.

But a few hard-scrabble pirates still lurked in the depths of Anti-spinward space. They wanted to retaliate against EO for having taken their favorite 'toys' from them.

Just the tools ROM needed.

~*~

Cranston was in his office going over the potential contract for the raid against Wing. He didn't want to seem too eager to his Steiner liaison officer, but he was looking forward to it. Jake had informed him that he had a solid lead on the famous Collection of Devron. Given how much Jake loved books, and how much enthusiasm Walmar was showing for this tip (something Jake rarely showed openly), Cranston was pretty certain that the tip was good. And the thought of yanking yet _another_ valuable collection of rarities out from under the nose of Janos Marik had a deep appeal to Snord.

His daughter tapped at his door. "Dad, there's another message from Mr. Broker. It's addressed to you personally. And it's encrypted."

Cranston raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. If it was encrypted, it wasn't one of their usual casual letters meant to tweak the noses of the spooks surrounding the unit. That meant business. He nodded to Rhonda. "Let me have it."

She put the chip on his desk. "I have a strange feeling about this one, Dad. I don't know why."

Mechwarriors learned early on to trust their instincts. "Lock the door, dear. And let's pull the pin on this grenade."

Everyone knew that ComStar read the mail that was entrusted to them. That was accepted as just the price of doing business, and people with something to hide routinely used code words and encryption systems.

No system was unbreakable, of course, but the general belief was that if it took longer and cost more to read the message than the message was worth, ComStar wouldn't bother. And they were mostly right. But not always.

Which is why Cranston wasn't surprised when his private encryption key didn't unlock the message. He smiled and reached for one of the books that Jake had gifted him. The one form of encryption that even ComStar couldn't break was the ancient technique of the one-time pad. It irritated them, but the laws of mathematics pretty much decreed there was nothing ComStar could do about that.

It had occurred to Cranston during the trip back to Crossing that someday he and Broker might need a secure means of communications, and Jake Walmar's library gave them the perfect tool to do so. They'd collaborated in making a mental list of which books to use and in what order. Only he and Broker knew that list, and it had never been written down. If this message was one of them, it meant several things.

One. ComStar could grind away on this message as long as they liked. The universe itself would grow cold and burn out before the ComStar snoops would be able to break it.

Two. If this WAS such a message, it was the first Broker had sent. All other communications had either been in the clear, or using Cranston's public key. If he wanted to keep it a secret to this degree, that very likely meant that something brown and smelly was probably about to impact the rotary air impeller. Definitely not good news.

The file decrypted with the first page of the first book. _Crap_, thought Snord. _I hate being right at times like this._

It was short, and to the point. A list of planets and dates, ending with a brief comment.

_"I strongly suggest you find a way to avoid these locations at these times - and find a damn solid alibi. You'll need one. Let Colonel Wolf know the same._

_-- Your friend,_

_Jared Broker."_

He waved his daughter over. "Look at this. What do you think?"

She read it and whistled softly. "I think war has just been declared, and we're getting advance notice to get the hell out of the crossfire."

"Agreed." He touched a match to the paper and watched it flare into ash. He didn't need it anymore. He and his daughter had both committed the times and locations to memory, and that's where they'd stay. The chip with the original message was going into an incinerator just as soon as he could reach one. "Who do you think, dear?"

Rhonda shrugged. "Who knows? Everyone's been getting pretty loud about how they want what EO has, Dad. Some idiot even offered me Graceland, if I'd turn on you."

"And you didn't take it?" grinned the old merc. "Daughter, I'm ashamed of you!"

"I couldn't figure out a way to load the mansion aboard a dropship," she admitted with a smirk.

Cranston roared with laughter, then sobered. "Let all the insiders know. And make certain we all use the same cover story for the locals in the unit. We're not going anywhere near these targets, not until it's safe. I'll be busy getting a message off to Colonel Wolf."

"Yes, Dad. Do you think we can stay clear of this one?"

"I don't know for certain. But I'm reasonably sure that whomever it is that has decided to steal from Mr. Broker, they've bitten off a lot more than they can possibly chew. And they'll end up regretting it."

~*~

The planet Wing hadn't been on the list Broker had sent them, and Katrina had unknowingly sweetened her contract with the offer of his pick of any Marik dropships that might be captured (one only, of course). Given the speed with which the unit was growing, that was a pretty attractive bid. Sooner or later, they'd have to limit the size of the unit, but for the moment, the more dropships the Irregulars could salvage, the better. Who knew... if the battles went well, they might even capture something heavier than a _Union_. Not to mention the fact that Jake was positively salivating over the chance to seize the Collection of Devron. If they could take the collection intact, they might consider building a library wing onto their museum.

So Wing it was. Cranston signed the contract and paid the extra to have it expressed to Katrina rather than accept the slower, less expensive ComStar service. They'd be on their way to the battlefront in days.

~*~

The drop had gone well, even if it wasn't part of the original plan. Two of his pilots reported intercepting a message about a library being unearthed by Marik forces on the planet. According to the intercept, the find was going to be transported overland to the nearest dropship landing zone. Cranston was certain it was the famous collection, and immediately re-wrote his battle plans. Sending his units through a gap in the Marik forces, the 'mechs rushed deep behind enemy lines to ambush the convoy carrying the collection.

They found it just outside of the city of Merth, and with the extra forces he'd recruited after the Rochelle debacle, he was able to take the convoy entirely intact. It had helped that one shattered unit from that bloody battle had lost all of their battlemechs, but _had_ saved almost two full lances of tracked LRM carriers. Cranston ordered them to remain behind in the Irregulars' original position. Guarded by a screen of light mechs, the LRM carriers fired and kept firing, almost until the launchers glowed from the heat. Seeing the scout mechs but not the launchers (which had hidden in a hull-down position), the opposing Marik forces simply assumed that all of the Irregulars were still in their original positions and were choosing a missile barrage over the vicious mech-to-mech combat of their last encounter. By the time the Marik commander realized he'd been had, it was too late. Contact with Snord's forces had been lost, while the LRM carriers and their screen, ammo exhausted, pulled back to previously prepared defensive points.

This had bought precious time for Cranston, and he made the most of it. Napoleon Bonaparte was famous for once telling one of his generals "Ask me for anything but time." The Marik forces had lost the initiative and were forced into waiting for him to make _his_ move before they could react to that. A crippling disadvantage. But not enough to win a war. So he engineered another disaster for them.

Another great general had said "Don't use the same trick twice." He'd bluffed the Mariks with a lance and a half of LRM carriers, and they would be expected him to try it again. So why not give them exactly what they expected from him?

The Irregulars had salvaged a _Powerman_ loadermech along with the LRM carriers, so when Snord requested a resupply prior to arriving at Wing, he slipped in two small line items into the requisition that none of the Steiner supply officers had paid much attention to.

A hundred gallons of sensor-resistant camouflage paint in various colors - and 144 crates of obsolescent "pancake"-style anti-armor land mines.

Cranston had requested and received digital imagery of the ground cover on Wing. Then every hand had turned out during the trip there, repainting every single mine to match the local foliage. Then they were carefully loaded into the cargo bays of the _Powerman_.

An elite company of mercenary combat engineers had been abandoned by a Marik general in a battle several years previous to Rochelle, written off by the officer as not worth the effort of retrieving because they weren't mechwarriors. The fifteen survivors of the 240 man unit had sought out the Irregulars and pleaded for a chance to gain vengeance upon House Marik. Cranston had accepted them. Vengeance was something he could understand.

Those fifteen recruited all the willing hands they could find, and they, the _Powerman_, and several small hovercraft followed behind the raiding party, breaking off in a small river valley just short of Merth. The loadermech emptied its cargo bays of the mines and continued on with Cranston and his mechwarriors, to hopefully carry the as-yet-to-be captured book collection. The engineers, along with their volunteers, set to work eagerly.

~*~

Snord and his people had captured the book collection, taking the Marik caravan easily and with no damage whatsoever to the books. Loading most of it up in the _Powerman_, and splitting the remains between the other mechs, they then proceeded to retreat back in the direction they'd come, with an entire Marik regiment in hot pursuit.

But diverting that regiment weakened the Marik lines, and an unexpected probe by scouts from a regular Steiner unit showed not only that regiment, but a good half of all Marik forces having pulled away from the front. Naturally, once the Steiners were certain it wasn't a trap, they attacked with all available reserves and broke through the Marik lines, shattering the League defenses.

Once they had broken through, the obvious question was asked: What was of such importance that the FWL commanders would divert so many troops, risking not only the battle, but the war? And _where_ was it?

The equally obvious answer - go look for it. So a reinforced regiment was sent out to "recon in force."

Recon in force, the commanding colonel was told, was defined as "if it moves and it's not ours, shoot it til it stops moving."

~*~

By now, the forces following Cranston and his people had grown to a scratch-built battalion group, absorbing the remains of the shattered convoy forces and anything within reasonable range of the target. It drove the League commander to fits of quiet fury that whenever he began to lose contact with Snord's people, the mercenaries would politely slow their advance.

One of the 'mechs had even left a giant arrow scrawled in the dirt with the words "this way" neatly scratched beside it.

Like his Captain-General, Major Richard Lorcet now swore an oath - Snord's Irregulars had to die to the last mechwarrior. No matter the cost.

~*~

Lorcet wanted to cheer out loud. Wing had been extensively mapped, and he had the local terrain displayed on a side screen. The small river valley that the mercenaries were headed for was narrow. They'd have to bunch up, with no room to evade incoming fire. The valley would make an excellent gauntlet with which to execute Snord and his thieves.

It never occurred to the major that the same would apply to his own forces.

~*~

Cranston wanted to laugh, but he didn't have the time. The CB's had completed their work, and were transmitting IFF codes and a safe route to his mechwarriors. It was going to be a _very_ tight fit, but if they kept to the banks of the tiny river meandering through the valley, they'd make it.

"Jake! Close up ranks! AND QUIT READING ON THE JOB!"

Snickers came over the open com lines as Walmar grumbled. "But Cranston, some of these are relics—"

"_We'll_ be relics if we don't pull this off, Jake. So, nose _out_ of the books till we make it to safety."

Walmar sighed in a theatrical fashion, and closed the book that he'd been covertly trying to read out of the corner of one eye, placing it carefully to one side. He was still teased about the time when one of the books he kept in his cockpit had slipped under a foot pedal, jamming it. Unable to move, he was nearly crushed by a attacking mech.

Rhonda laughed. "Look at it this way, Jake - we make it out of this in one piece, and you'll go down in librarian history. You just have to be patient."

"I just have to hope that whomever is following us has the intelligence to understand the value of what we're carrying, Rhonda. The destruction of these books—"

"Would be like someone burning down Graceland, I know, Jake, I know. Believe me, I understand what they mean to you. And I hope you're right."

"The CB's are ahead," interrupted Windall. "I've got them on visual."

"Good to go, Shal." Cranston responded. He switched channels. "Bug out, I repeat, bug out. Acknowledge."

"Dixon here. Acknowledge bug-out. We are clear and on the move. Warning, you are now in the hot seat, repeat, you are in the hot seat."

"Roger, Dixon. Did everyone else get that? Sound off by the numbers."

One by one, his mechwarriors replied in the affirmative.

"Let's do this, and do it right. Then we can watch the fireworks from a distance. A _good_ distance."

They closed in on the river, picking up speed and staying as close to the riverbanks as they could without drawing ranged fire from the forces following them.

~*~

Lorcet knew he was in trouble when the smoke canisters went off, filling the small valley with thick, sight-blinding clouds.

"All units, shift to thermal image—CRAP!" The damned scavenger had used IR-opaque smoke! Thermal imaging was giving him maybe two meters of range, max. He couldn't even see the feet of his own mech. "All units report by the numbers! Can anyone see through the smoke?" He listened as the reports came back quickly, all negative. "Are any units still clear of the valley?"

"Sir, yes sir!" came a young and nervous voice.

"Name and rank, son. Where are you?"

"Ah, ah, Mechwarrior Dougherty, recon element, sir! I'm just outside the valley, I was on overwatch."

This stank of a trap. Snord had a few aircraft to his name... "Dougherty, do you see any enemy air support?"

"Sir, no sir!"

Lorcet thought hard and fast. "All right, people - I know we can't see anything, but I want you to slowly retrace your steps. This valley's a trap, and I don't intend to give the vulture the satisfaction."

"Sir? What about the collection?" asked his XO.

"Officially, we'll do our best to retrieve the collection, Jimmy. If some of it is destroyed killing that damned vulture, well, too bad. But we can't do a thing if we can't see. Once we're clear, I want you to take two companies and leg it doubletime _around_ the valley to the other end, while I hold here with the other three. We'll trap him in his own smoke cloud, call in some arty to keep him from trying to climb the sides, and THEN take the collection intact. Now let's move it."

He hadn't even gotten two mech-lengths before the cry rang out.

"MINES! MINES!"

"Freeze! All units! Jimmy, report!"

Before his exec had the chance to say anything, a voice broke in on an open frequency. "You're standing in the middle of a mine field, Major. Teller mines to be precise. Made to kill tanks, not 'mechs, but with five kilos of RDX inside them, they'll still do a fair job of crippling a 'mech. Step on one, you'll lose a foot, step on two or more, you'll likely lose a leg."

"DIGGER! DAMN YOU!"

"Now that was rude, Major... here I take the trouble of warning you, saving the lives of your men - I'm even saving their mechs! And you insult me. I'm deeply hurt."

"You'll pay for this, you scavenging bastard!"

"I think not, Major. Oh, and just for the record, most of the mines around you are standard composite construction pancake mines. If you don't step on them, they won't go off. But my seabee friends were feeling generous, and they threw in a few off-route mines as an extra. I'm told the ORMs have a range of about 50 meters - simply passing in front of them and presenting a visible target will trigger them. They're a lot like getting hit with an SRM and do the same amount of damage. Fortunately, both sorts are easy to detect visually. If you were able to see, that is."

"I'll kill you Snord. If it's the last thing I do, I'll kill you!"

"Quite understandable, Major, I'd feel the same way if I were in your position. The thing is, I'm not _in_ your position. You are. Now, I'd strongly recommend that you order your men to _carefully_ wait right where they are, until the smoke clears. Given the weather conditions, that should be in about fifteen to twenty minutes. Otherwise, you'll lose quite a few 'mechs trying to make it through the mine field. Which will, by the way, all self-detonate in twenty-four hours, so you won't have to clear it yourself. Isn't that charitable of me?"

Lorcet's reply was unprintable.

"Now, now, Major. Open airwaves, remember?"

"SNORD! I'll kill you until you die of it!"

"Perhaps, Major. But you'll have to catch me first. Simply must run now, you understand, places to go, historical artifacts to recover, all that rot. Tah!"

~*~

Snord had told the truth. If anything, he'd given an overly-cautious estimate. The smoke had cleared in just over ten minutes, allowing the demi-battallion to carefully withdraw from the valley. As the mercenary commander had said, the teller mines were easy enough to spot once you knew they were there, even through their camouflage paint scheme, provided you took the time to carefully scan the ground in front of you. And that was much easier to do from the elevated cockpit of a mech than from a tank or APC.

But in order to do that, they had to allow Snord to make an unimpeded getaway.

Lorcet still ended up taking about a lance's worth of damaged mechs thanks to the ORMs - the damned things were accurate enough to spot a mech from dozens of meters away, just as Snord had stated. Fortunately, they'd been designed to deal with armored vehicles, and didn't aim higher than three meters. All the damage his people took was to the legs of their mechs. Nothing life-endangering, though the repairs would be time-consuming. But Snord had slipped away, and done it on _Lorcet's_ watch, damn him. That made it personal.

Worse, the Steiners had shown up less than thirty minutes after the smoke had cleared the valley, and Lorcet had been forced to make an undignified retreat as the lead elements of the Steiner recon forces had called in both air and artillery support. They'd been shocked and surprised by Snord's survival, thinking him dead or captured at the hands of the Marik forces, and Cranston's success had them all awe-struck at his audacity. It was even rumored that Snord's Irregulars would be personally decorated for their courage by Katrina Steiner herself.

Lorcet, on the other hand, would be facing an enraged Janos Marik, with nothing to show for his actions save public humiliation. At best? He'd be lucky if he could hold on to a command in some Periphery hellhole. At worst... he didn't want to think about the worst.

Someday, somehow, Snord would pay for this. Oh, he would pay _dearly_.

~*~

"Matten, I tire of the lack of information concerning this upstart organization. Has Kist anything worthwhile to add to what is known about them?" Julian Tiepolo stared at his adviser, his bald head and the round, reflective lenses of his antique eyeglasses giving him a rather disconcerting and somewhat reptilian appearance.

The elegantly robed gentleman shook his head. "Vesar, I fear, has ideas considerably above his station, Primus. I suspect him of withholding information from the intelligence oversight committee, myself, and you, as potential bargaining counters against his future with ComStar."

Tiepolo leaned forward intently. "Is there a need to recycle young Kristofur?"

Matten interlaced his fingers, pondering for a moment. "Not immediately, sir. However, it would be advisable to consider the possibility. I would suggest that Vesar be more directly assigned to the upcoming project involving the subversion of Anton Marik. Being the Duke's most direct, if secret, liaison to ComStar is a most... hazardous... position. Accidents in the field do occur, Primus. And should just such an unfortunate event take place, I'm quite certain the blame can be laid at the feet of House Marik."

Julian nodded. "And he cannot rationally turn down the mission, due to the importance of subverting Anton. Start his preparations for that assignment, and begin to groom his successor. Logically, he cannot control ROM while he is in the field, therefore he cannot object to a temporary substitute for his office. Be certain to choose someone with... less _ambitious_ goals to replace Kristofur. Competency in the position is still highly desired, however. We cannot afford a bungler in charge of ROM. As for the here and now, inform Vesar that I wish him to proceed with his plans to obtain samples of the technologies that Executive Outcomes holds."

"Is our agent in place expendable?"

"He is."

"Thank you, sir."

Matten couldn't entirely suppress a minuscule smile as he bowed and left the Primus' office. He was loyal to ComStar, first, last and always. That didn't mean he enjoyed the fact that some of ComStar's field assets were unsavory.

And the death of a convicted pedophile would grieve him not at all.

~*~

Edison Carter smiled as he reached for the intercom. "Sir? We have a hit on the ComStar mole."

"Indeed? I thought they would never get around to using him. The urge to sanction that bit of genewaste keeps growing with each passing day."

"I sympathize, sir. I've often felt the urge to part his hair with a smartround, myself. But now I'm glad I didn't. May I see you in your office? This will require a face to face, and an immediate authorization from you, sir."

"Understood. One kilosec and I'll have my desk clear."

"Thank you, sir."

~*~

Carter brought the files up on Jared's desk. "They're pumping him for any information regarding shipments of equipment not obtained from inside the Inner Sphere, and they're giving him trade records concerning us, so that he will be able to spot any such shipments and be aware of the difference."

"Cute. Dangerous, but cute. And they can be reasonably certain that he won't shop that information around on the side for a bit of spare cash, because he's got the death sentence on his head in three different Successor States."

"Actually, it's all four now, sir. The ISF put out a recent medium-priority memo that Kniess was to be killed on sight, and under no circumstances was an ISF agent to speak, communicate with, or otherwise make any sort of contact with him before killing him."

Broker raised an eyebrow. "Who did the perv touch over there? A Kurita?" When Carter remained silent, the second brow joined the first. "Seriously? The idiot had the audacity to try to molest a member of the Kurita family? I was aware Kniess was stupid from your briefings, but I was under the impression that the genetrash still had some basic survival instincts."

"Apparently not. One wonders how he has managed to survive this long, sir. He appears to have Hamilton's own luck at times." Carter touched the sheet of epaper, tapping an icon. "Getting information out of the Combine is harder than performing dentistry on a chicken, but we did get this – a cousin to one Chandrasekhar Kurita, who is himself a cousin to Theodore Kurita, current heir to the Combine. Kniess got the child drunk, then made his move. However, he was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a servant. Nothing came of it right away, due to the confusion and factionalism surrounding the murder of Chandrasekhar's parents, who were the child's legal guardians at the time, but the ISF was cleaning up their backlog of cases, and this one eventually made its way to the top of the list. Someone opened the file, and when they saw the words 'Kurita' and 'molested' in the same document, and it wasn't the Kurita _doing_ the molesting..."

"It suddenly became time to make all the loose ends go away. Permanently. Including the knothead who started things unraveling to begin with."

"Indeed, sir."

Broker examined the information closely. "I can't see anything wrong with your plan, Ed. You have your authorization. Co-ordinate with Daniel in TacStrike, then go ahead. And Ed?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Once we no longer require Kniess' services, see to his immediate retirement."

"That will be my pleasure, sir." The savage smile on Carter's face left no doubt as to that.

~*~

Porthos wasn't much of a colony. The original Inheritors colony had largely failed, with little left that could be done for the survivors save for providing medical care for the few survivors. It hadn't been violence or catastrophe as much as lack of support. The colony simply hadn't been large enough to reach the take-off point for self-sufficiency.

The small and rather cool forest world did have the advantage of being located almost equidistantly between the Lothian League, the Illyrian Palatinate and the Circinus Federation. This made it ideal for basing forces who'd signed on with Executive Outcomes. It also made an excellent disbursement point for supplies, and EO had placed a number of large warehouses on the world, guarded by a mix of well-paid local mercenary troops and extremely closed-mouthed people from whatever Periphery nation EO had come from.

It was, perhaps, obvious that someone would launch a strike on those warehouses sooner or later.

It was less obvious that this was part of the reason those warehouses were located there. After all - if a trap _looked_ like a trap, few people would choose to step into it.

~*~

Dean Lang scanned the warehouses carefully. He could _not_ bilge this assignment. Though he simply couldn't understand why he'd been given it. Being part of the team that pulled this off? Yes. _Leading_ the team? No. What in Tucker's name was Carter _thinking_, handing him this responsibility?

_I'm too damned young for this_, he swore quietly. _I'm leading people twice, no, _THREE _times my age! It's insane. I'm only twenty-nine!_ Then again, if he could pull it off, he'd be able to write his own ticket for decades to come.

A *ping* hit his mind. Incoming info-dump. Pirate raids on every world with an EO contract, and for all intents and purposes, they were being launched simultaneously. If that word even had any meaning left in a universe where supraluminal transportation and communication were possible.

_And ComStar considers this subtle? If this is their idea of sophisticated, then they probably need a GPS system, an inertial guidance unit and a twelve terabyte field manual just to take a dump in the woods._ Without_ toilet paper._

At least the disgusting little molester had carried out his own part of the plot, albeit totally unawares. IntellSec had spotted his transmission to ComStar with laughable ease. In fact, the interception team was so disappointed at Kniess's general ineptitude in spy craft, once they had forwarded the message up the chain, they'd translated the contents into ancient Sumerian and back again, just to have something to do. And they'd corrected his grammar in the process.

The interception team was also serving as the Company bookies - hundreds of thousands of grams were being wagered on who'd exterminate the vermin first, ComStar or EO. Though a few betters were taking long odds on one of Kniess's co-workers finally growing tired of his general smarminess and shooting him on the spot.

Dean had two hundred grams riding on that eventuality himself. Best part was, no matter who won, _everybody_ won. Except for Kniess, of course.

He *pinged* his team's sub-net. (- Recon One, report.)

(- Advil. Situation normal.)

(- Bayer. All clear.)

(- Cepal. Nothing here.)

(- Panadol. All quiet.)

(- ?)

(- ?)

(- I'm _not_ using that code name. I _refuse_.)

Dean sighed. Just his luck...

(- The names were assigned at random and don't have any other meaning. It wasn't meant as an insult or a joke.)

(- I _swear_ I'll make you pay for this...)

(- So challenge me to a duel after this is over. I know what time it is. Report, already!)

(- _grumble._ Midol. Nothing here. And it's NOT my 'time of the month.')

(- Tell that to the arbitrator. _snicker._)

(- Advil!)

(- Sorry, sorry. I'll be good.)

(- Intercept Three here. We've got a runner. Chester the Molester's in his hover, and headed straight towards the port at max speed. Looks like the rat is leaving the sinking ship.)

(- Thank you, I3.) Dean frowned slightly. Well, there went _that_ two hundred grams straight into the furnace. Meh. Such was life. (- Team One, go to Condition Alpha. If Kniess is bailing, then he's expecting to be picked up.)

(- Roger that,) came the replies.

Another all-hands *ping* hit their subnet. Gravitic signature at the L1 jump point. No EO or allied ships were scheduled. Massive fusion plumes spotted.

(- Looks like show time. A pirate point, and hey, three gee acceleration? They must want in and out in a hurry. Gotta be our guests-of-honor.)

(- Damned _stupid_ guests-of-honor if you ask me... using an L1 point with the pathetic jokes these people call jump drives? That's like putting a noose around your neck and _daring_ people to kick the box out from under your feet.)

(- Did get them close in to Porthos, though... they're only 3 light seconds out. They'll be here shortly.)

(- Point taken.)

(- Remember the plan. Let at least one load and one dropship get away. Burn the rest. Take prisoners if you can, but no risking things. Make this look good.)

(- Twenty grams says they make an orbital drop with their 'mechs, then try to land in the confusion of the crossfire.)

(- Sucker bet.)

(- Well, duh.)

(- Central update: Three _Union_ class dropships inbound. ETA, 3.78 kiloseconds, _mark_. Jumpship is _Invader_-class, current speed and heading show an course for the L5 pirate point. Looks like she's getting out while the getting's still good. Alert! New gravitic signature at zenith jump point!)

(- Cute. One ship drops them off, one ship picks them up. Minimizes the risk to either jump ship -- but increases the suspicion,) noted Lang. (- How many pirates would have two or more jumpships at their beck and call? Conclusion: They aren't planning on leaving any incriminating records at our command and control center... or any incriminating survivors.)

(- C3 concurs. You have full release. Command is now yours, Headache One.)

(- Yes, and now I have one,) grumbled Dean.

(- You knew the job was a pain in the ass when you took it,) noted C3 flippantly. (- Orders?)

(- All hands. Hold tight, confirm fictions and alibis with local hires. Proceed with panic parties. C3, are the surprise packages under the port ready for our guests?)

(- That's a roger, Headache One. Packages are a go. We are refining trajectories still, but at the moment it still looks like they're going to use the port landing pads. Foolish of them.)

(- They _are_ working with the info we fed their informant, C3.)

(- C3 reiterates: Foolish of them. And annoying. Gonna be a cast-iron bitch re pouring all that ferrocrete. _sigh_)

(- Granted, C3. Re: the ferrocrete - you have my deepest sympathies. All hands, ready your positions, and remember your priorities. Let's give ComStar a nice warm welcome.)

~*~

The shriek of atmospheric re-entry was loud enough to force its way through the insulating material of his drop pod and into his mech, but Adept Kidd resolutely ignored it. keeping his mind on the mission, and on the eleven acolytes under his command. The others were mere pirate scum, expendable in the long run. Kidd's orders were to allow them to run riot over Porthos, so long as it didn't interfere with the capture of samples of EO-based technologies - and hopefully, at least one of EO's executives. Attempts at kidnapping non-local employees who were heading EO offices in the IS had failed miserably. Now, here, they hoped to succeed. Personally, Kidd doubted that, but hope sprang eternal in the chest of ROM's upper echelons. And as a mere ComGuard Adept seconded to ROM, it wasn't his position to question his superiors.

No matter how thick-headed they were being.

His mech shuddered as explosive bolts blew apart the charred remnants of his re-entry pod and deployed his parasail. He checked his side monitors. It was dangerous to use active radar, it made you a target. But he had to run the risk.

Good, he was coming in over the designated LZ, about three kilometers away from the warehouse complex that their informant had briefed them on, and the rest of his people were grouped tight. It was looking like a good drop, at least for the CG 'mechs. As for the pirates, they looked to be scattered all over the map.

Small loss there. They were intended to create chaos, and to cover his withdrawal. He had orders to abandon them on Porthos if that would assist in the success of this mission. He suspected that the pirates had already knew this, but that they didn't care. The potential loot in the warehouses was numbing their survival instincts, and what little remained were blunted by the knowledge that EO's forces were being engaged across a dozen different systems. Surely they couldn't have anyone left to defend this world.

_Wishful thinking on their part_, thought Kidd, _but then if they weren't wishful thinkers, they probably wouldn't be pirates_.

He toggled the unit channel. "All units form on me after touchdown. Let's make this tight, people. We only have the word of our snitch to go on, and I _don't_ want to be surprised."

"And the pirates, sir?" That was Acolyte Timmons. Young and uncertain of herself at times, but one of the most instinctive pilots he'd ever seen. The girl could do things with a 'mech that probably hadn't been seen since the end of the Star League's 'Gunslinger' program.

A pip on his display caught his eye, and he looked to the north, where a pirate 'mech had just suffered 'chute failure and made a rather impressive crater. "Their survival is _their_ problem, Timmons. My problem is _our_ survival. _Your_ problem is following my orders."

"Yes, sir!"

He tapped out a code on his comm console, and a map display came up in the cockpits of his people's mechs, with a single image blinking brightly. "According to our snitch, warehouse A-5 is both the personal weapons transshipment point AND under heavy security due to a recent supply transfer directly from wherever it is in the Periphery that these people came from. We do this by the numbers. We go in. We take down the defenses. Timmons, you're best at using the hands of your mech, so I want YOU to be the one grabbing crates and stowing them in our cargo nets. We'll take turns providing you with cover while you're doing that. And we are _not_ to be taken prisoner, people. Under no circumstances. Clear?"

"Yes, sir!" came the chorus.

"Good. Now let's take that warehouse."

~*~

The three _Union_ dropships that had just set down under fire were superficially identical. Their exteriors were shabby and they appeared to be ill-maintained. That was true of two of them. But with the third, it was a carefully crafted illusion, an illusion that ComStar had devoted much time and effort to. The _Inner Truth_ was a work of art by ROM's best deception artists, a true masterpiece in its own way. The best technology available to ComStar had gone into the dropship, putting it on a par - if not slightly ahead - of the very best that the Star League once had to offer. Weapons, armor, sensors, navigational and targeting computers... they were all far beyond what the Successor States could field.

(- What a joke. Get this... they're trying to _hack_ us.)

(- You're kidding, right?)

(- Nope. Take a look on channels 3, 6 and 7.)

(- Oh, now this is just _pathetic_. THIS is supposed to be the pinnacle of ComStar's vaunted technological advantage? I've seen children trying to hack their way around the parental lockouts inside their implants who were doing a better job of it. You should brainburn this guy just out of respect for the IT profession and on general principles.)

(- Yeah. But the higher-ups in the company want at least one ship to get away with some toys. I'd say we've just found our volunteer. We can lose the other two ships.)

(- You'll need to stall them. They'll get impatient if they can't get _something_ from our 'net.)

(- Thank you for volunteering, Captain Useful.)

(- Hey! I didn't say anythi—)

(- No, you didn't. I did. IIRC, you're still wearing that centuries-old antique from First Landing.)

(- So? And my TeraComm 67 is a classic, not an antique! There's a world of difference!)

(- So put it on the port LAN and let them dink around inside of _it._)

(- My TeraComm is _not_ a starport mainframe and wasn't meant to be. It's a delicate piece of our technological history, an item of immense personal val—)

(- Jubal, compared to what _they're_ using, your TeraComm's a freaking _AI!_ Now just **do** it!)

The computer security expert aboard the _Inner Truth_ wanted to smirk at the universality of humanity. He'd forced his way into the port's systems, brought down their firewalls, and the first thing he'd found while beginning a mass download of all their files was a hidden stash of porn. He chuckled to himself - if it hadn't been for this raid, someone here at the port would have been answering to their superior for mis-use of company resources. If their aficionado of adult entertainment didn't die during the raid, at least he'd have the consolation of knowing that there wouldn't be enough of the port network left for his boss to tell what it was, let alone what was stored on it.

It was nice hardware, though. The ComStar cracker was somewhat envious. If the system benchmarks he was running in the background were correct, this TeraComm machine far exceeded anything ComStar allowed to be sold in the civilian sector, and was more than a match for many of the machines ComStar itself used. He hoped that, once EO had been broken to the ComStar yoke, he'd get to be on the team that examined their computer industry. It looked like these people had quite a bit of useful technology. He'd love to have the opportunity to play with it.

Unfortunately, he wasn't going to be able to please his superiors by giving them the answers they wanted to hear. With each incoming file, it was becoming more and more apparent that these people weren't scavengers looting old Star League supply dumps left over from the war, they were using newly-manufactured equipment, _independently_ manufactured equipment. And that meant they were from a Periphery nation with an industrial base that ComStar didn't know anything about.

That was NOT what his superiors wanted to hear.

They definitely wouldn't be happy with his report.

~*~

Kidd definitely didn't like what he was seeing. Normally, a drop like this would be filled with screaming civilians trying to escape from the big, bad mechwarriors. For that matter, the buildings would be filled with people, period. But there was no one here aside from some heavily armed teams that were pulling the painfully familiar "fire and fade" tactic on him.

Fortunately, they didn't appear to be armed with anything heavier than SRM's, and they didn't seem intent on standing their ground.

And that made him feel even more suspicious. Where the hell _was_ everyone? No one could evac a place this fast. It simply wasn't possible.

He triggered the remote beacons that ComStar had secretly installed on the pirate's mechs when they'd "helped" to do the repairs the pirates needed, and overlaid them on the map of the warehouse complex and the nearby worker's housing. Damn. The bastards were in the housing area, and at least two of them appeared to have been taken down. Well, no matter, they were always intended to be expendable - just not quite so _quickly_.

Now they were outside the A-5 warehouse, and he kicked through the side of the wall with an elán that would have done Kerensky proud. "Everybody IN, IN, IN! Everything we can carry in ten minutes, and then back to the ship!"

Timmons, he was proud to see, had already snagged a pair of crates and was stuffing them into the cargo net on the back of one of her comrades mech while the other nine had formed a defensive circle around the other two. Good. If she kept it up at this rate, everyone would have a full net and be out of here well under the time limit. Kidd wanted OFF this rock. Superstitious as it might sound, the hair was standing up on the back of his neck. Something was seriously wrong about this place, and the collection of combat instincts in the back of his head were screaming like air-raid sirens. The sooner they were aboard the _Inner Truth_ and off this planet, the better.

That's when the threat display on his main screen began to flash red.

~*~

"Wall-Eyed" Wally Kring cursed as his mech took another hit.

"Dammit, where's this shit coming from?" screamed the pirate. His battle-worn _Firestarter_ wasn't the fanciest ride around, but unlike other pirate machines, he'd kept it in (mostly) good repair, doing almost all of the work himself. He slapped at the patched-together targeting and tracking system, trying to get a make on where the incoming fire was coming from. The threat display flashed, blanked for the longest second of "Wall-Eyed" Wally's life, then came back up with a burp and a trajectory for him.

"_Pikes_? We're taking fire from _Pikes_? That's crazy talk!"

~*~

Most mechwarriors tended to laugh whenever the _Pike_ support vehicle was brought up in conversation. A medium-weight tracked vehicle, its armament of three ZeusBolt Class 2 autocannons weren't taken very seriously by anyone but infantrymen. A single projectile from a ZeusBolt didn't do any more damage than a single short-range missile. Even with three of the cannons in a single turret, a single _Pike_ couldn't do much more harm on the battlefield than could a light recon mech - and then, only if the crew were very fortunate.

Of course, the above conclusion was based on the faulty assumption that the _Pike_ would be fighting one-on-one.

A wise man once said that "...if you find yourself in a fair fight, you must be doing something wrong."

What "Wall-Eyed" Wally - and by extension, the rest of the pirates - weren't aware of was the fact that Wally was being targeted by half a dozen _Pikes_. Given each _Pike_ had three autocannon, that meant that a total of eighteen shells were raining down on him at any single moment. While those shells didn't do much damage individually, in the aggregate, they were quickly tearing his mech apart. The same was true of each of his comrades. There were six _Pikes_ devoted to each and every pirate mech, all of them receiving targeting info from inside the complex, literally under the feet of the 'mechs. And they all outranged every weapon his mech carried.

"Wall-Eyed" Wally Kring died railing against his fate... and cursing the cowards who refused to fight him fairly, in a mech, in single combat, the way a true mechwarrior should.

~*~

Kidd was certain now. This stank of a set-up. His unit had been led down a garden path and _allowed_ to loot this warehouse. The question in his mind was simple - what _sort_ of trap was this? There were two sorts of traps, generally speaking. The ambush and the sting. If this was an ambush, he and all his people were about to die on this mudball, trying to carry out their duty to ComStar. If it were a sting, they'd be allowed to leave safely.

Oh, there'd be all sorts of fireworks, dramatic near-misses and hairs-breadth escapes to make it all _look_ good, but his unit would survive. Because the people who owned this warehouse wanted it to survive. Probably as part of some disinformation campaign directed at ComStar.

He'd already tried to test the first theory by carefully kicking open a few of the crates lying in huge piles around them. Weapons - or at least items that looked like weapons. Just as expected. No "bomb-in-a-shipping-crate" traps. Not yet, anyway. His mech's sensors couldn't pick up any suspicious objects. Or rather, they were picking up _expected_ suspicious objects: nitrate propellants, low-grade radioactives (probably depleted uranium in the projectiles) and other such things, but nothing unexpected, or specifically targeted at them. Just weapons. Unfamiliar weapons, perhaps, but that was all he could see with the admittedly limited scanners his mech carried.

Screw it. If these EO types were letting him and his people go in order to play some sort of psy-ops game with the big brains in ROM headquarters, then he was okay with that. If he felt a little guilt, he'd just file a report and mention his suspicions. That would be enough to put him in the clear. Let ROM take the heat for this one. None of his people were going to die if they didn't have to, and damn it, if this was an info-sting, then they didn't have to.

And to hell with any bitching, moaning or complaints about his performance from double-dealing, desk-piloting ROM bureaucrats who hadn't been in the field in years. HE was the man in the hot seat. It was HIS people at risk. HE'D make the choices. And if they didn't like it, screw them. They could come out here and get shot at, just like he was.

"That's enough! Take what you've got and GO!"

"Sir, it's only seven min—"

"_Go!_"

His people were good. Aside from the single weak protest from Timmons, they all turned for the hole in the warehouse wall without complaint, sprinting at top speed for the spaceport just as soon as they were clear of the buildings.

~*~

There was a heavy sounding _snap_ that resounded across every open audio channel, mech or dropship. Even the public address speakers on the sides of the buildings (the few that hadn't actually been shot off by the raiders) echoed it. The few remaining pirates cringed - they'd heard stories about this from other bands of marauders. No one had believed them, no one _wanted_ to believe them. No one did something like that any more. Except maybe that crazy Snord girl, and everyone knew she was just as cracked as her digger of a father.

Then the music began. And the pirates shuddered.

"_And in my dying, I'm more alive than I have ever been. I will make this sacrifice, for I am Winter born..._"

The surviving brigands now fought with the strength of desperation - and the desperation of the damned, for that was all they had left now. They knew they weren't leaving this planet alive.

Kilometers away at the port, the music rang out through the three drop ships, while the cracker aboard the _Inner Truth_ suddenly discovered that his connection had vanished. The entire LAN vanished as if someone had blown a fuse. Sending a nasty thought through his head, one very similar to that was wandering around that of Adept Kidd. This had just been one big trap, and they were the bait for it. He swept the stolen files from his main board, and proceeded to scream at the rest of the crew to get the engines on line _right f*cking now!_ He wasn't going to give those f*cking madman a chance to do... whatever it was those lunatics did when they captured you.

On the road, Kidd and his people struggled to squeeze even a single extra KPH out of their mechs, desperately red-lining their reactors. They'd been briefed before they left on this mission. While the intel from the pirates had been confused and unreliable even at its best, the raiders had been painfully clear and precise on this point.

The locally hired forces might stand aside, but the "freaks" from outside the Sphere had just raised the black flag.

No quarter, asked or given.

And no prisoners taken.

If Kidd and the men and women in his unit couldn't reach the _Inner Truth_, they'd never live to see Earth again.

~*~

(- Looks like the two pirate _Unions_ are getting antsy.)

(- The last of their mechs are going down, and I don't really see trying to take these two as spoils for Cranston. It'd be a bit much for him to explain, and ComStar would probably nuke them on sight just to be rid of the embarrassment.)

(- . . .)

(- What?)

(- I'm thinking, all right?)

(- Think faster, they're running through their pre-launch checklist.)

(- Oh, damn. Man, I hate this - ruining a perfectly good ferrocrete job.)

(- _*shrug*_ If it helps any, think of the fireworks, dude...)

(- Damn... nothing for it, I guess. Inputting code: _Destruct sequence 1, code 1-1 A_)

(- My turn. Inputting code: _Destruct sequence 2, code 1-1 A-2B_)

(- I get to go last. Oh, goody. :P System, Inputting Code: _Destruct sequence 3, code 1 B-2B-3_)

(- Who thought of these _dumb_ codes? I mea—)

(- WHOADAAAAMN! Did you see that?)

(- Vertical shaped thermal-plasma columns - when you absotively, posolutely have to turn 3,500 tons of dropship into an expanding cloud of vapor, and do it from below! Scratch two pirate ships.)

(- Bet the ComStar ship felt that, though.)

(- If you redefine "felt" to mean "we just got the shit kicked out of us by a massive semi-nuclear shockwave...", then yeah, they probably did. But they're not too hurt. They can still make orbit. That's all that counts, really.)

(- Good point. Here's another. Are they gonna run now, or are they gonna stick it out to retrieve their little mecha-boys and girls?)

(- Looks like they're gonna hold till the last minute. They're ComGuard, they take care of their own. Just like we do. So we give them the chance to do so. Slacken the fire from the defensive positions and let them see we're offering a bridge of gold to an honored enemy. That appeal ought to be enough...)

(-You know, that idea is so INCREDIBLY stupid, it just might work! I Like this idea! I'm proud to be part of this idea! Lets do it!)

(- Thank you, "Doctor Venkman", and shouldn't you be getting back to your firehouse now? ANYone else got anything to say? At all? No? Then lets go ahead with it. One golden bridge coming up.)

~*~

The twin pillars of fire roaring up from the port managed to somehow clutch at Kidd's chest with a freezing hand. What had happened at the port? What had happened to the _Inner Truth_? Did they even have a way left off this rock any longer?

~*~

The infantry units that had spread out from the _Inner Truth_ and surrounded the port control tower were now covering their own retreat, pulling back to the dropship as fast as physically possible. The massive explosions that had engulfed the two pirate dropships had taken them totally by surprise and had injured more than a few with the unexpected flash and blast. Adept Westwood had several men flashblinded because they'd been looking the wrong way when those ships blew up, and he had a sinking feeling he'd be losing quite a few more. He'd been monitoring the progress of the battle on a back channel. Westwood believed in everything ComStar stood for and his faith was strong. But he wasn't a fool. Their forces were losing, and losing badly. He looked over his shoulder where he could see the flashes of distant guns, and wondered if those same guns would be turning on his troops next.

Then he noticed the hideous gunfire slacking. Whoever these EO people were, their _sidearms_ were making single-shot kills, punching through high-grade body armor as if it weren't there. Worse yet, some of the bastards had been using explosive rounds - in handguns! Were they insane? He had at least a lance of men dead with holes in their chest that you could stick a damned fist through. Some of the rounds had even hit men who'd been in full cover... as if the damned things had gone _around_ obstacles. But that was impossible. Right?

Now the sound of gunfire from their side was slacking, slowing down. Were they finally running out of ammo? Primus, he hoped so.

As the incoming fire grew quieter, he noticed another sound in the background, one that was quickly growing louder. The heavy, hammering sound of battlemechs sprinting for all they were worth.

"Pull back! Pull back! Cover your buddies and the 'mechs, and pull back to the dropship! By the numbers! Squad one, GO!"

~*~

Kidd could spy the dropship now, and a more welcoming sight he'd never seen before. The ramps were down, and the infantry had clustered around the legs of the ship, trying to give his mechs some cover, even at the cost of their own lives. No way in hell was he going to waste that.

"Up the ramps, full speed! F*ck the regs, I want you inside NOW!"

The affirmative chorus he received told him he wasn't going to get any backtalk about this. He didn't care if they did a million C-bills of damage to the dropship on their way in, he wanted his people OFF this damned rock. And if they all lived, he was going to spend a day or three on the trip home writing assorted nasty-grams addressed to the idiots who had cheerfully insisted that this mission would be a walk-over.

_Walk-over. Right. WE'RE the ones who got walked over, and those morons at HQ are going to accept the truth of that if I have to personally shove it down their throats with my mech!!_

He was the last one aboard, and he'd waited outside, providing cover for Westwood's troops. They'd done it for him, he owed them that. Then he made a final rush up the ramp, covered by the _Union's_ heavy guns.

He didn't power down his mech until he felt the blessed surge of acceleration that told him they were off the dirt and on their way to the awaiting jumpship at the zenith point.

And even then, he didn't relax until days later, well after the first jump had taken place.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

There hadn't been too much damage in the warehouse area. The ComStar mechwarriors had been too interested in making an intelligence raid, and the true pirates had been taken down well before they could cause widespread destruction. There were still more than a few areas that needed repair, and Dean made a note to alert the SeaBees to get several building printers up and running.

Maybe that would keep Port Authority from bitching about the two new holes in their tarmac. Two small coherent plasma charges, barely a quarter-kiloton each, and you'd think that a mundito had lost pressure from the way they whined.

Really.

Melodramatic of them, but those were engineers for you. You break _anything_ and it was bitch-bitch-bitch. Maybe he should tell them to bill the costs to ComStar. If nothing else, the look on their faces as he pranked them with that would be worth millions in social credits once he posted the video to the 'net.

He'd finished the overview of the warehouse district and had come to see what was left of the two pirate _Unions_ when he heard the agonized shouts behind him.

"Augh!"

~*~

Chester was screeching in pain. It didn't help that the two burly troopers in the blue-gray EO duty uniforms were twisting his arms behind him with far more enthusiasm than normal.

"I didn't do anything! You're not cops! You gotta let me go! I want off-planet! I got rights!" he shrieked.

"Rights? The same rights the children had when you molested them, Mr. Kniess?"

"I - I'm Bill Jones, from Weddington. I'm—"

"Your name is Chester Leicester Kniess, you're wanted for multiple counts of child abuse, child molestation, flight to avoid prosecution, murder in the first and second degrees, resisting arrest, and a laundry load of other charges," recited the younger gentleman who'd stepped forward to confront him. "We _have_ your DNA, Mr. Kniess. And we have you. But if you'd like to leave..." The man waved to the guards. "You're free to go. Of course, we're required to inform any and all law enforcement agencies of our findings, and we'll do so well in advance of your leaving this planet. I suspect you'll find a rather interested welcoming committee waiting for you at the spaceport no matter _where_ you head for, save perhaps for the Periphery. And as the only ships headed towards the Periphery for the next two months belong to EO, that puts you in something of a bind, Mr. Kniess."

"no, no, you can't - I don't hurt them - I love them, they love me, we're happy - you can't, you gotta underst—"

"Shut him up for a moment."

The two men holding Kniess grinned, and the keening whine rose to a shriek of pain, then faded back to an agonized groan.

"My name is Dean Lang. I am currently leading the EO forces engaged in combat here on Porthos. This means that for the moment, until I'm relieved, I have the authority and power to have you shot on the spot for any crimes you've committed in this jurisdiction, or to hand you over to allied law enforcement officials for crimes you have committed in theirs. While my people have rather... _liberal_... attitudes towards sex and how people choose to enjoy it, the molestation of a child under the age of consent or of a person otherwise unable to give informed consent makes us rather angry. But our customs and traditions are old, and we hate violating them. So I am giving you a choice, Chester Kniess. Five choices, actually."

"Whu—Whu..."

"First choice. I hand you over to the tender mercies of the nearest Davion law enforcement official, as that's where your first known crime was committed. Second choice, a Lyrian LEO. Third, a Marik LEO. Fourth, a Kuritan - though I wouldn't recommend that, as they don't appear to _have_ any tender mercies."

"Th-the fifth ch-choice?"

Lang held out one hand, and a short woman in a forest-green bodysuit with a pastel-green cross on her right shoulder stepped forward and slapped something into it.

"Mauser and Grey M-27 needler. They tell me it's standard issue across the Inner Sphere. You can handle one without shooting your eye out?"

"Yu- Yes."

"Good. Your fifth choice is this. We duel. By Kyfhon tradition, if you walk away from this duel as the winner, you walk away. No one will stop you, prevent you from buying passage on a jumpship, or attack you unless you insult them first. You understand?"

"I - What?" The rat-faced little man shook his head, confused. "Wait, what? Y'mean like th' Dracs? Noble duels an' all that crap?"

"Close enough, Mr. Kniess. But before you can choose, you must know the rules. Adjudicator Cooper?"

A beefy man with gray hair and shoulders like a professional linebacker stepped forward. "The rules are simple and apply to _both_ of you. Each of you will take his position, preparing his weapon at my command as referee. You will observe the handkerchief I hold out. When I drop it, you are free to draw your weapon and fire. Try to draw _before_ I drop it, and you'll be shot. After the drop, you may move in any way you choose - duck, dodge, even charge your opponent if you so wish. But you are barred from firing at a fallen man. Do so, and as the referee, it will be my responsibility to shoot you dead. Fire at a spectator, and I'll shoot you dead. Fire at **me**, and I'll shoot to cripple first, THEN shoot you dead. These are the rules. Do you understand them, Mr. Kniess?"

The ratty individual froze for a long moment then nodded carefully. "Yeah, I undahstand. Can't shoot at 'im after 'e falls, if 'e falls, you'll shoot me if I do. No touchin' th' ref or th' others 'round. I win, I go free."

"Do you _accept_ these rules as stated, Mr. Kniess?"

"If I accept 'em, and win, I get t' go free, no grudges, like?"

"Yes, you do."

"Then yeah, I accept."

The woman in the green bodysuit took the weapon back from Lang, slipped it into a gunbelt and set it on the ground a few meters away from Chester. The spectators moved back, forming two lines on either side of Kniess, giving him several body-lengths of space. The two guards behind him released his arms and gave him a shove forward.

"Pick it up, belt it on, and take several steps back, Mr. Kniess." The expression on the adjudicator's face was that of someone faced with an unwanted pet who'd just relieved itself on the floor. Chester did so, shaking, and fumbling as he fastened the gunbelt around his waist.

"Prepare your weapons, gentlemen."

Cooper waited several moments. "Are you ready, Lang?"

"Yes."

"Are you ready, Kniess?"

"Yuh— Yes."

Cooper held out the large and eye-hurtingly colored paisley handkerchief.

That's when something inside of Chester broke. His hand dived for the needler as he dropped to the ground. _If I'm already down, they can't shoot me. They said so themself._ He tried to roll, holding the needler in the general direction of Lang and holding down the trigger, hoping the spray of ballistic plastic shards would hit the other man.

The pain in his chest came as a surprise. _Why does my chest feel so hot—_

~*~

Lang regarded the body with disgust. The two-centimeter beam of the powergun had opened up Kniess's chest like a chainsaw, the heat of the beam causing the flesh to explode as the water in it flash-vaporized. He looked over to the men who'd taken Kniess prisoner, tipping his head to one side as a message *pinged* him through the 'net.

"Mr. Carter and Mr. Broker want to send ComStar a message. Get the body into stasis, contact the closest Davion LEA, and arrange to send this to them." He paused for a moment, searching records. (- Intercept, I want everything we have on how Kniess got here, and on his ComStar controller summed up, sanitized, and packaged for delivery with his body. The bosses want ComStar embarrassed, and there's nothing more embarrassing than having to explain why someone in your organization was covering for and actively assisting a child molester. See to it copies of all relevant material are shared with the Kuritans, Steiners, and Mariks, after they've been properly sanitized. Give them all the info we can without exposing ourselves, and as much evidence as possible. If we can force ComStar to sacrifice an Adept or two in order to cover their own asses, so much the better. EOF.)

(- We're on it. Data sanitation in progress.)

Dean noticed a distant throb in his arm and looked down to see a few small runnels of blood tricking their way down his smartsuit. "Oh, now that's annoying." Just as he feared, the healer was headed his way with _that_ look in her eye.

"What do you think you're doing, young man? You have a dozen shards of polymer in your arm. You're coming along with me right now."

"My suit will—"

"Your suit's just as damaged as you are, and if I've heard that once, I've heard it a thousand times. 'My suit will fix things.' 'My suit will heal me', 'It's just a flesh wound.' Why do all you idiots think you're invulnerable?! I'm sick and tired..."

Lang noticed everyone else slowly edging away from him. "Cowards! Traitors!"

One of the troopers who'd been holding Kniess shook his head and snickered. "Nope, just smart, dude. Surrender now, while you still can."

Dean sighed, and gave in. He was never going to hear the end of this.

(- Someone get my relief online and tell him I've been taken hostage by a rabid healer.)

(- I _heard_ that!)

_Oh, crap._

~*~

It never failed to amuse and annoy Broker that Carter could sneak up on him, even after all these decades. Somehow it had become a contest. Jared would set his suit avatars to be as sensitive as possible without having them scream at him over every random dust-mote that fell in the wrong direction. Edison would be caught once or twice, then somehow manage to avoid them. Then the cycle would repeat. The man was a damned ghost.

"I agree, sir. I am rather wraith-like."

"Augh! Damn it, Carter!" The tall bony man had appeared behind his shoulder yet again. In his own Hamilton-be-damned office. "Someday..."

Carter nodded. "Someday, sir. But not today. I have the report from young Lang."

Jared sat down in the leather armchair he'd bought from Cranston's loot... err... thiev... ah... people. He hated to admit to it, but he had as great a weakness for history and antiques as the former Clansman did. "How did the boy do?"

"The ComGuard unit has exactly what we want them to have, nothing more. Two of the pirates survived, they apparently had their ejection systems switched on. It's unknown if that was intentional, or merely a side effect of sloppy maintenance." Edison tisk'ed disdainfully. He firmly disapproved of such carelessness in combat. "Do you wish them disposed of, or simply handed over to the nearest governmental law enforcement?"

"Did they see anything dangerous?"

"No, sir."

"Then hand them over to the Lothian League. A public trial and a slow hanging will do wonders for the League, and help to reassure the agents watching us that we have no intention of setting ourselves up as a government."

Carter smiled. "Done, sir. And Lang's coming along nicely. Still quite young, but he has that vicious streak I'm looking for in my agents. I'm thinking of promoting him."

"Excellent. And the trash the pirates were piloting?"

"Most of it smoking rubble, sir. But we've found something interesting in the remains. There were a few anomalous transmissions noted during the battle. After-action analysis tracked them to the pirate mechs. ComStar had planted beacons on their machines." He forwarded a file to his employer. "They're playing a dangerous game - these particular transmitters use advanced post-Star League technology. In fact, there are certain elements of design that are reminiscent of our cousins' work, albeit rather crudely imitated. If they'd fallen into the wrong hands, people would start asking embarrassing questions that ComStar would be hard-pressed to answer."

"Hands such as ours, Ed?"

An amused smile flitted across Carter's face. "We already know they're lying to everyone, sir. It would be the Successor States who would be making uncomfortable inquiries."

"Indeed. Do you think they should be?"

"Mmm. I would not advise it at this juncture, sir. It would merely serve to raise ComStar's alert level and tip our hand prematurely. If you're still set on carrying out 'Long Knife', that would not be prudent at the moment."

"Point taken. Allow ComStar to think we haven't noticed, and send Cranston a commiserating message that we weren't able to take any of the pirate mechs intact for his salvage. Keep it low-key, and put it in the usual weekly message queue, standard priority." Broker's eyes hardened. "Let Tiepolo think his people have fooled us."

"Yes, sir. In addition, I've been thinking about Operation 'Long Knife'. As you intend to carry through with it - and I understand why you do, I'd suggest an additional distraction to divert ComStar's attention away from the Free Worlds League."

"Oh?"

"If you would take a look at this file, sir? I think you'll appreciate the irony, as well as the humor." He slid a sheet of epaper across Jared's desk. "I'll need to ask for volunteers from De la Cruiz's people."

Broker touched the icon on the paper, and began to grin, then to laugh. "You're serious about this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Damn, Edison, this is demented. You're twisted, sick and evil. This is possibly the greatest prank pulled in years, perhaps decades. I love it. I'm proud to call you a friend." The grin grew wider. "One condition. I want to meet the man who plays the central role before he goes out."

"Sir?"

"Ed, my father used to read me that book back before I got my first 'suit. When I was older, I watched the movie so often, I came near to wearing out three wallscreens. I _want_ to meet the man who's going to be the person I dreamed of being. No ifs, ands or buts about it."

"I understand, sir. I'll have the candidates report to your office, in costume."

"Oh, this is going to be _glorious_, Ed. I had no idea you read the book too."

"It was most entertaining, sir. And it will drive ROM insane trying to figure out what's going on."

"Agreed. Tell Dan you have my authorization to call for volunteers. Now go and do that voodoo that you do so well."

Carter stood and left the office, humming a tune under his breath. Jared smiled as his memory supplied the lyrics.

_Shiver my timbers, shiver my sides_

_Yo oh heave ho_

_There are hungers as strong as the wind and tides_

_Yo oh heave ho_

_And those buccaneers drowned their sins in rum_

_The devil himself would have to call them scum_

_Every man aboard would have killed his mate_

_For a bag of guineas or a piece of eight_

Oh, yes. This was going to be amusing.

~*~

Matten kept his face professionally blank as he headed for the Primus' office. He was not happy that he'd been selected to do this briefing. And the Primus wasn't going to be happy with its contents.

Tiepolo was waiting for him, several file folders spread across his desk. Matten couldn't quite see the contents, but was certain that if they'd attracted the personal attention of the Primus, it would mean trouble later. The question was, trouble for whom?

"Your report, Matten?"

"Unpleasant, to say the least, sir. I'll start with the laser pistols." He held up one photo - it simply wasn't possible to bring the real thing into the presence of the Primus. His personal guard wouldn't allow it.

"First, this pistol uses an entirely unfamiliar means of power storage. The researchers aren't even certain it's power _storage_ as we understand the term. Perhaps power _generation_ would be more accurate." Matten held up a second photo. "This cell appears to have been filled with a stable isotope of Element 115, also known as ununpentium. Specifically, ununpentium-299, which was predicted to be in the center of the 'island of stability' as early as the second half of the Twentieth century."

He held up a third photo. "This appears to be a small particle emitter, which bombards the ununpentium-299 with protons, causing it to rise from Element 115 to element 116, which then decays rapidly, providing the energy to power the pistol. Where the ununpentium-299 comes from, or how a proton emitter with the required power can be constructed on such a small scale is still unknown."

A fourth photo. "The same power cell, or one so similar we're unable to tell the difference, is used in this pistol. It appears to be a hybrid between a gauss pistol and a standard chemical weapon - but with some unpleasant twists. The researchers are calling it a G/G pistol, after some bit of obscure 20th century humor that one of the technicians quoted while the weapon was being disassembled."

Matten paused for a sip of water, then forged onward with the most unpleasant part of the briefing.

"The technology involved in both weapons is disturbingly advanced, sir. It's unlikely we will ever be able to duplicate them, however hard we try."

Julian's eyes stared at him remorselessly. "Explain."

"Sir, while some of the technology used is within our reach, and some of it we already possess, what makes these weapons viable is the manufacture's access to materials we simply do not have." Matten held up the photo of the gauss pistol. "This pistol can fire standard metallic rounds as any gauss weapon might. It also appears capable of firing combustion-based rounds, of which we have captured a selection. But the chassis of the weapon is nearly 90% rhenium, sir!"

"Rhenium?" Tiepolo's eyebrows went up. He had been a communications major - not exactly a rarity in an organization devoted to making certain people's messages were delivered - but he held doctorates in other disciplines, and even now studied for amusement's sake. "That is difficult to believe, Matten. If I recall my chemistry classes, rhenium was, and still is, rarer than gold. Your people would seem to be telling you that someone's building _infantry_ weapons that are worth more than entire companies of infantry."

"I'm afraid so, sir." Matten went back to the fourth photo. "This pistol alone contains nearly a kilogram of rhenium and rhenium-based alloys. At the prices of the opening of today's metals market, that makes this single weapon worth 15,000 C-bills for the metal alone. Yet Executive Outcomes appears to equip their trusted employees with them as a matter of course." He shook his head. "Then there is the matter that much of the advanced technology employed by both types of weapons appears to be directly tied to the exotic materials used in their construction. _That_ is why our researchers are so hesitant about duplicating them - while they are able to understand the concepts behind the technology, and are even making recommendations on how ComStar could try to reproduce it, such reproduction depends on using the same materials. Materials which we do not have in sufficient quantity, sir. Or at all, in some cases."

Tiepolo frowned. "We shall return to this point later. For the moment, detail the technological advances - in brief."

Matten nodded. "First, the laser, sir. It's considerably more powerful than any laser pistol of its size and mass produced in the Inner Sphere. The reason for this is that it uses two heterodyning lasers in exact wavelength desynchronization. This produces a beam that's more destructive than the sum of the two lasers. This is a technology we _can_ appropriate, sir."

"If it is something we can do, why haven't we done it previously?"

"Heterodyne lasers had been abandoned as overly complex and expensive, sir." Matten pulled another sheet of paper from the folder. "It's of the utmost importance with such weapons that the two beams stay in exact desynchronization, and as the weapon heats up, there is frequency drift in each emitter. Given that no two laser emitters can be absolutely identical, the two beams tend to drift apart. And once the desynchronization lock has been lost, the weapon actually becomes less effective than a single beam laser of the same power output. As a result of difficulties in maintaining such desynchronization, research in the field was quietly abandoned ages ago. But the samples taken from EO use an entirely different approach to maintaining desynchronization in the face of heat build-up, one we'd never before considered."

Julian considered the statement. "Have tests been conducted using available assets?"

"Yes, sir. A team at the Titan range has already built a prototype using parts taken from a pair of standard large lasers from a 'mech. They were able to achieve a 25% increase in beam power with only a 10% increase in heat, and that was merely the prototype." Matten pursed his lips slightly. "I took the liberty of ordering them to focus on decreasing the weight, Primus. If it can be reduced to the standard five tons - which the technicians believe it can - what they have already achieved is a great leap forward in laser weaponry. I hope you will forgive the presumption."

Tiepolo waved the confession away. "Forgiven, Matten. But why begin with 'mech weaponry?"

His advisor shook his head. "Even with understanding how EO managed to compensate for frequency drift in the beams, we are at present unable to miniaturize the components to the point of creating a hand weapon, sir. At the moment, working with what we have on hand, we are able to duplicate their results only with weapons on battlemech scale."

"I see. And the gauss pistol?"

"Even more disturbing, sir. It would appear to be a combination weapon - we've found chemical rounds for it as well as metal flechettes. The combustion rounds are what are bothersome. They don't use standard gunpowder. Instead, they are caseless rounds using what appears to be a combustible aerogel, electrically ignited. The slugs are actually micro-grenades. Far more worrisome, they are _smart_. Each round has an almost imperceptibly small molecular micro-computer that serves as a combination detonator and guidance system. This actually explains the reason for the aerogel propellant, as the magnetic fields of the pistol would burn out the circuitry in the micro-grenade, sir." Matten took a deep breath before continuing. "The weapon itself is smart, sir. The entire grip is a single, monobloc molecular computer, far more heavily shielded than the pinhead computer in the individual rounds. And it seems to be designed to interface with its user."

The look of shock would have been comical, if it had been on the face of anyone other than the Primus of ComStar.

~*~

The briefing had paused while the Primus had obtained a bottle of expensive, single-malt Scottish whiskey and a pair of glasses from a hidden drawer in his desk. (Not that he had any illusions about the bottle being unknown - Julian's own personal secretary had been known to spirit the shot glasses away for a good cleaning. Julian had no intention of reprimanding her for that... good, trustworthy secretaries were _hard_ to find.)

Matten took the second glass and downed it in a single gulp. Julian gave him the _look_, the look that whiskey aficionados across the Inner Sphere understood to mean _you don't treat a good drink like that_, but given the situation, Tiepolo couldn't find it in himself to properly glare at his advisor.

Julian went first. "So it's not merely smart rounds, it's smart weapons. That would explain many of the reports that have crossed my desk lately."

"Yes, sir," Matten nodded. "And the further implications are... disturbing, to say the least."

"That the people using those weapons would have to be cybernetically enhanced to make the best use of them? Yes, I'd say that was a disturbing thought, Matten."

"I am sorry, sir. I didn't mean to imply—"

"I understand, Matten. If I had brought a similar report to _my_ predecessor, I would be equally uneasy. Please, continue."

"Yes, sir. If the researchers examining the weapons are correct, both the laser and the gauss pistol were designed with the intention of interfacing with their user. This would, of course, require some sort of cybernetic implant. But it also explains the design of the combustion ammunition - while they're not entirely certain, a number of the technicians believe the rounds to be source-programmable, with the intention of instant reprogramming in combat. One could shoot through walls by programming the micro-shells to ignore the first impact of a wall, exploding only after they've reached the other side. Or to ignore body armor, only going off when surrounded by flesh. Or to provide inflight guidance _before_ impacting the target."

"So the slugs are maneuverable?"

"To a limited degree, sir. They probably wouldn't be able to shoot around corners, but small course changes would appear to be possible, and that would make them extremely difficult to dodge. This is also why they're chemically fueled. While the computer in the pistol itself is magnetically shielded, the pinhead computer in the round can't be. Not and still remain small enough to be practical." Matten sighed. "I already have several hundred of our best hardware and software designers throwing temper tantrums because they want to see the results of the analysis of the computers, and they want to see it yesterday. They don't care what I think, they don't care what _you_ think, sir. They've seen the face of the Machine God, as it were, and they want to worship. Now. Without delay."

Julian snorted, and ran his hand over his bald pate in a reminiscent manner. "I'm not so old that I can't recall the type, my friend. College was full of them. Crack down on them as required. Just don't kill them. We'll get them the toys they want. Eventually."

"Yes, sir. And that brings me to the last topic concerning the captured weapons."

"Continue."

"They have sensor suites that rival some 'mechs, sir. If the techs are correct about the cybernetic link, then anyone suitably equipped to interface with it can use the sensors built into the weapon to hit targets at what we'd consider to be impossible distances. As well as providing terminal guidance to the slug, sir. With the gauss portion of the weapon to provide brute-force impact with the ferrous flechettes and the explosive smart slugs to provide.. well, _explosives_, that explains much of the after action reports from Adepts Westwood and Kidd."

Tiepolo refilled their glasses, and nodded at Matten's, who took the hint and sipped at the whiskey slowly, giving it the appreciation it deserved and allowing it to relax his frayed nerves as much as it could.

"Gods, where could they have come from? These weapons make our best look like relics from the era of black powder!"

Julian pondered that for a moment. "The metallurgy. As rare as rhenium is, where are they getting it from?"

"There are two schools of thought among the researchers on that matter, sir. The first is worrisome, the second... outright frightful."

Tiepolo raised an eyebrow.

"Either they've found a world naturally rich in trans-uranics, so rich they can afford to use them the way we might use aluminum or..."

"Or?"

"Or they've successfully mastered practical, affordable matter transmutation, sir. And that possibility, sir, quite frankly scares the hell out of me."

Neither possibility sat well with the Primus. He gently tapped a finger on his desk, deep in thought.

"There is little we can do about the second possibility, Matten, save take action to appropriate, then bury, the technology should we have the chance. As for the first, however..." A thoughtful look crossed Tiepolo's face. "As I recall from college astrophysics, metal-rich worlds form from metal-rich nebula. Systems rich in heavy elements form from nebula equally rich in heavy elements. And such nebula are formed primarily from supernova." He looked to Matten. "Instruct the Explorer Corp to direct their efforts towards supernova-spawned nebula rich in such elements. This should reduce the number of systems they will have to explore in detail, and speed the process by a considerable amount. Examine such systems for radio emissions and other signs of civilization. A technological civilization capable of producing weapons of this sophistication cannot hide for long."

"Yes, sir."

"Undertake this personally, Matten. I hereby detach you from any other duties. Pass them on to such assistants that you trust. Finding where these people came from, and extending ComStar's dominion over them, is now second _only_ to maintaining our control over the Inner Sphere. All other considerations are tertiary."

"Then with your permission, Primus?"

"Begin now, my friend. And pray to Blake we succeed in this matter. Or in time, we may find ourselves under _their_ dominion."

Matten rose and left the Primus' office, those words echoing unpleasantly in his mind.

~*~

"This is accurate, Major?"

"As accurate as Wolfnet can make it, sir. The EO people aren't trying to hide what happened."

Jaime Wolf frowned. "The two pirate dropships - what the HELL was used on them? I'd swear they were nuclear weapons, but what sort of madmen use nuclear weapons on their own territory?"

Major Tulliver grimaced. "We're not even certain it was nuclear, sir. Several merchants who witnessed the attack noted that repairs to the landing pads had already begun less than thirty minutes after the battle ended, less than an hour after the weapons went off. Repairs being made by _unshielded_ personnel. If those were any sort of nuclear weapon we're familiar with, the people making the repairs would be glowing in the dark from radiation poisoning."

"Just another item for us to chalk up in the 'what the hell is going on here?' column, eh, Major?" Jaime grimaced. "Broker's a friendly man, and he's dealing fairly with Cranston, but whoever or WHAT ever is backing Broker is a hell of a lot more than I thought we'd encounter in the Inner Sphere."

"There is one other option available, sir."

Jaime looked at her, curious. "That being?"

"You still hold his surety, sir. We could just... ask. He said it himself. He may withhold confidential information, but he won't lie, not so long as he's contractually obligated. That seems to be how he views it." She rubbed her thumb against her forefinger, a nervous habit she was trying to break. "It's how _we_ view it, sir. A contract is sacred."

Wolf pulled the heavy gold coin from his pocket and looked at it for a long moment, deep in thought. "If nothing else, it has the virtue of rarely being tried."

"Honesty's like that, sir." The wry expression on the major's face said it all.

Wolf put the coin back in his pocket. "Contact Cranston. Tell him we want to speak with EO again. Offer to pay for the information. That way, we might not get what we want, but what we get will be the truth." The leader of the Dragoons frowned. "I have no idea why, but I'm getting the ugly suspicion that we're looking at the beginnings of something as bad as the Succession Wars. And I've learned to listen to those hunches, Major. Make this happen. Make it happen now. And Major?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I want those briefings on Duke Marik updated. Do the same with the files on Chancellor Liao. I don't like some of the things I'm hearing. Dismissed."

Tulliver saluted, and promptly left the room.

~*~

Broker's staff was waiting for him in the main briefing room at their Porthos headquarters.

"Carter?"

"Infiltration is near complete, sir. We have a dozen Amps inside the Duke's headquarters. And two hundred people on the ground in the surrounding area with full thermoptic camouflage, along with another twenty-four Amps. When we make the drop, nothing inside the city will be working, sir."

"De la Cruiz?"

"The ships are ready, and everyone who is 'mech qualified are ready to make the drop, sir. We've pre-selected the targets for the pulse cannon, and Carter's provided the malware to shut down the recharge station. When we hit the system, there won't be a single hyper-pulse transmitter operational."

"And the pigeons?"

Daniel frowned. "Ready. But I would still like to register my dislike of that option, sir. If we start burning other people's K-F drives simply to interdict a system _before_ openly declaring war..." De la Cruiz shrugged.

"Noted and logged, Danny. We'll withhold them as a final resort weapon. But I'd rather have them and not need them than need them and not have them."

"Understood, sir."

"TransComm is standing by with both HPGs and ships to counter any objections by corporations who object to the financial losses of being caught in the crossfire of an objective raid, sir. They'll receive one month's free HPG service, or three times the value of the cargo interrupted in transit. ComStar will be bleeding money in buckets." Leah Kurtz, the current head of TransComm, grinned fiendishly. ComStar had made several attempts on her people, and she didn't take that lightly.

"Good. Final question. We need their help, and to get them on our side, we'll need _him_, and the rest of them, alive and well. So, how close do we dare cut this?"

Kurtz and De la Cruiz both looked to Carter, whose normally solemn face now looked like that of a professional funeral attendant.

"Sir, I'd recommend at least three appearances by our distraction. While the Successor States may take issue with our actions, they'll be cautious enough to rattle sabers well before they make any attempt against our forces in the Inner Sphere. There is also the fact that Archon Steiner appears both interested and amused by our presence. It's ComStar that's the true danger at this juncture. They have the ability to pressure otherwise reluctant Successor States into taking action against us. Given what we know about ComStar, the Dragoons, the Clans and their interaction, our distraction should divert ComStar _just_ long enough to present the Inner Sphere with a _fait de accompli_." Carter paused for a moment. "Of course, if we mung this, we're screwed and it's war between our people and everyone else. A war to the knife that no one involved can win."

That got a round of sour nods from around the table. "And on that cheerful note, let's do this. Three appearances from our little troup of actors, then we launch the attack. So be it. Have everyone in place at least two weeks before the event. And send the go message to our band of merry players. Now. Let's see what ComStar will make of our madness."

"'I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly / I know a hawk from a handsaw,'" quoted Carter.

"Here's to hoping that ComStar doesn't," noted Kurtz dryly.

~*~

All of Julian's closest advisers had gathered without the need to be summoned. Once they were seated, the Primus waved at the wall-sized screen that dominated the room.

"I have seen this. You have seen this. We will watch this one more time. And then I will want _answers_."

The last word had come out in a furious hiss that made it clear that if answers weren't forthcoming, advisers would be replaced.

"Three of our HPG stations on the Periphery, serving the Tauran Concordat, have been attacked. While the hyper-pulse generators themselves were left untouched, all other materiel belonging to ComStar was deliberately destroyed. This is the interview with the Adept in charge of the third station."

The Primus touched a button, and the screen brightened. Filling it was the image of a young adept, clearly being interviewed by someone off-screen.

"I-I don't know, sir. The first report was that dropships with what appeared to be SLDF markings were headed for the station. I ordered the standard challenge. There was no reply."

A quiet murmur.

"Yes, sir. Once they had crossed the line, I ordered defensive fire. They evaded, touched down, and repeated their previous demands. When I again stated that we had no prisoners, they attacked."

"And you were defeated."

"Yes, sir. We held out as long as we could, but the pirates appeared to have superior forces. Their 'mechs were in good repair, and all of them bore insignia of a SDLF unit, lightly painted over."

"Were you able to identify the unit?"

"Not personally, sir. I've since been informed by one of my men that it was the insignia used by the Lionhearts, last seen during Kerensky's Exodus."

"What happened then?"

"Once our last position fell, the pirates took the station. They did not damage the hyperpulse generator, nor did they loot any of our personal property. We were shackled, then led before their leader, who identified himself, then repeated his earlier demands."

"What did he look like? Did he have any memorable features?"

"I was unable to tell, sir. He dressed entirely in black. He even wore a black bandana on his head, concealing his face."

"A bandana? That sounds... melodramatic."

"Yes, sir. It covered the entire top half of his head, including his nose."

"And then?"

"Then he ordered us released. We were shackled to a post in the compound, the keys to our cuffs just out of reach. One of my men was drugged and left unchained, with the key to our cuffs tied around his neck. When he awoke, he released us. By then, the pirates had already fled the system."

"Then you made contact with higher command, informing them of this raid."

"Yes, sir."

"You do realize, Adept, that this report makes you look like either a fool or a liar. It's utterly implausible that a well-armed pirate band would attack, defeat and destroy an HPG station merely to demand the return of a hostage - a hostage, I might add, that ComStar does not have."

"Yes, sir. I'm aware of that. I have nothing to say in my defense. Any fault is mine, and my men should not be held accountable."

"You're brave, young man. Foolish, but brave. Now, please repeat, for the record, the pirates' demand."

"The only demand they made, other than our surrender, was that we return Princess Buttercup."

The Primus shut off the screen with an angry gesture. He glared at his advisors.

"Would someone, _anyone_, care to explain to me why our HPG stations are being attacked by a fictional character?! Why we have lost three stations to a lunatic who thinks he's the Dread Pirate Roberts?!"

There was no reply.

"I thought as much. Matten!"

"Yes, sir."

"Have one of your assistants take charge of this. I want at _least_ one extra combat unit detailed to each HPG station in that general area. And set up one heavy reaction force, with the jumpships required, within two jumps of the area. Comb the area. FIND these fools. If ComGuard units are insufficient to the task, you may draw upon the ... special ... units. If so, do it with discretion. But have it done, and done immediately. I will NOT abide this mockery." Tiepolo's angry glare swept the room. "And should this... embarrassment become public, I may find myself in need of new advisors. Is that understood, gentlemen?"

~*~

"They fell for it, sir."

Broker smiled. "And you knew they would, eh, Ed?"

"The current Primus is a intellectually proud man, sir. If there is anything that can inspire such a person to rash, ill-conceived action, it's being mocked for a fool. And being _successfully_ mocked for a fool is far worse."

"He'll come to his senses eventually."

"Yes, sir. But by then, we'll have what we want, and there will be little he can do about it. Long Knife _is_ ready."

"Then let's plant it in the middle of ComStar's back."

~*~

**New Delos system, Oort space, Coreward, aboard the EO jumpship, **_**Ayn Rand**_**.**

**July, 3014 CE.**

"Kristofur's in place, and whispering his poison in Duke Anton's ear. Just as we were informed."

Rick Sharf, the local head of TacStrike, nodded at the report. "Infiltration?"

"Total. And we have a bonus." His assistant smiled. "Apparently Vesar's using one of the Duke's gunsmiths for regular maintenance. Seems that while the dandy doesn't mind getting blood on his hands, he's horrified at the thought of grease and gun oil ruining his manicure."

Sharf laughed. "That's rich. We _did_ take advantage of that, didn't we?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. The boss would have us by our contracts if we failed use a gift like that - and he'd be right to do so." Rick scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Is there any other way we can manipulate the situation to our benefit?"

"No sir. Now it's just waiting."

"Then get everyone training while we count the days and assemble the fleet."

~*~

**March 6, 3015 CE.**

"Duke Anton's taken action, sir. Major Wolf, his staff, and their dependants have been taken hostage by the Duke's forces."

"Has the idiot sent a message yet?"

"Yes, sir. I quote - TO: Colonel Jaime Wolf, Commander, Wolf's Dragoons. FROM: Duke Anton Marik, Captain-General of the Free Worlds League. This is to inform you that Major Joshua Wolf and 27 members of your household staff have been arrested. They will be held until such time as you comply with my orders and place your units at the disposal of my line officers. Failure to obey these orders will result in the execution of all prisoners within 14 standard days of this transmission."

"Arrogant little would-be ruler of the galaxy, isn't he?"

"With respect, sir, IntelSec's people believe about ninety percent of that is Vesar talking through him. ComStar wants to know where the Dragoons have come from _almost_ as desperately as they want to know where we hail from."

"Point." Sharf grimaced. "The message has gone out. Turn around time for the Dragoons will be about fifteen days." He rose from behind his desk. "The codeword is _Long Knife_, Biggles, and that word is given."

"Yes, SIR!" The XO left the office with a wide smile on his face. He and almost all of the EO forces had been looking forward to this with a passion. ComStar would learn to deeply regret that they'd ever annoyed Executive Outcomes.

~*~

**New Delos Zenith Jump Point,**

**Recharge Station Ariel**

**March 8, 3015 CE.**

"Jump signatures, jump signatures everywhere!"

The commander of the recharge station frowned. "Calm down and be specific, man! Where is 'everywhere'?"

"EVERYWHERE, sir! Every pirate point in the system is showing activity! Dozens of ships! An entire fleet! It's impossible!"

Commander Frederick Burns swallowed hard as he looked at the display board. If it wasn't lying, then this was a full out attempt to take the system unlike any seen since the end of the last Succession War.

His career was doomed.

"Get word to New Delos, man! Do it—"

With a flick of color, a bank of telltales went from green to red, signifying the loss of communication external to the station.

"What just happened?"

The command crew worked desperately. Finally, one looked up at him. "Sir, we've been hit by a virus. We have short-range omni-directional radio communication, but all the long-range directional antennas are malfunctioning and refusing to respond to commands."

"What about the hyperpulse generator?"

"The ComStar personnel report that the HPG system has locked them out and is rejecting all their passwords."

"What?!"

The crew member tried to keep from flinching. "Yes, sir. The HPG appears fully functional, but all the codes appear to have been changed. It looks like another virus, sir."

"Then detach a drop ship and _hand carry_ a message to the Duke, you fool!"

The unfortunate crew member delivered the next piece of bad news. "Sir, the docking clamps across the station have been over-ridden. No ship can leave unless we use cutting torches to get them loose."

Commander Burns sank into his seat, horrified. "My career's ruined. Ruined. When the Duke hears of this, he'll have my head."

~*~

Vesar Kristofur slapped at the connection in a fit of fury, cutting off the Adept in charge of the ComStar ground station on New Delos. The man had babbled at him in a panic, trying to escape blame for the fact that the HPG was rejecting all attempts to send a message. Kristofur didn't want to hear that. He'd wagered everything on this attempt to simultaneously send the Free Worlds League into bloody civil war _and_ break the Wolf's Dragoons. If this failed, Tiepolo would send him into exile for the rest of his life. And that was if he was fortunate. Should Julian discover that the entire scheme was merely a stepping stone on his path to the throne of ComStar, Vesar's life span would last only until the Primus decided it was no longer amusing to listen to his screams.

He moved through the corridors of the ducal palace as swiftly as he could without looking anxious. He had to reach Anton's office, and Anton, immediately. News of the incoming dropships had spread quickly. It was clear to Kristofur that it had to be Colonel Wolf - though how he'd managed to trick everyone into thinking that the Wolves had left the system was unknown. It didn't seem possible. But who else could it be? They had to get Joshua Wolf and the other hostages on screen, with guns to the backs of their heads, or the Dragoons would level New Delos. Not that Vesar gave a damn about New Delos, but he happened to be ON it at the moment.

Still...

He fingered the code key in his pocket. There was a small, one man shuttle craft of the sort usually owned by wealthy fools who fancied themselves pilots, hidden well out of the way of any possible fighting. If it all went wrong, he could be off-planet in mere hours, awaiting pickup by a ComStar _Bugeye_ spy ship. As Precentor ROM, he had the authority to command that. Vesar was well aware of the ancient Chinese proverb about a wise man being prepared to abandon all his luggage at least three times in one's life. It would take him years to rebuild his power base. But with patience, all things were possible. And he could afford to be patient. He had the time. Eventually, with patience enough, he could rule the Inner Sphere.

Among many other things.

~*~

(- Looks like things are playing out according to our sources. All dropships to assigned stations. Let's do this with a minimum of collateral damage, people.)

(- Maybe more than you think, C3. Look at channel 2.)

(- What are we— oh. _*snort*_ Either Kristofur or Anton are idiots. Or both. They're following the book to the letter. They've napalmed the forest behind and to both sides of the ducal estate. All scans say he's concentrating his firepower in front. And you know what they say about the easy way in.)

(- Rule 5!)

(- Yep.)

(- Murphy was an optimist.)

(- It's a nice fire, in a pyromaniacal fashion, but it _is_ in our way.)

(- Right, then. Candles were made to be blown out. Warning to all ground units, _Candle In The Wind_. I repeat, _Candle In The Wind_. Incoming thermobarics. Remember, if you're close enough to feel the heat, you're probably too close.)

(- Thank you for that helpful info, Captain Exposition.)

(- No problem.)

~*~

Duke Anton Marik, _soi disant_ Captain-General of the Free Worlds League was beginning to feel the first gnawings of panic in his gut. His command post had lost communications with the rest of New Delos, but long before that, reports of extensive sabotage covering nearly every sector of the planet had overwhelmed his people. The power grid was down across most of the cities, and the capital was totally dark. A tramp dropship had managed to relay a distress call from the nadir jump point, a panicked report that they had lost control of almost everything on the recharge station short of life support.

All of his aerospace assets were gone. Whatever the hell the Dragoons were using, it had blown his fighters from the sky with an almost contemptuous ease. The following dropships had landed almost totally unopposed. His 'mech units were still mostly intact, but that was less planning and more random fortune. Anton had withdrawn all but a few units to his estate in anticipation of forcing a confrontation with the Dragoons on his own estate, a battlefield of his own choosing. But the Dragoons weren't behaving in a rational manner! Why had they landed so far off target, when the hostages were _here_?

"Get Vesar in here _now!_" he shouted at his personal guards. "I want him in my office. And drag that bastard Wolf in here too - _in chains!_"

~*~

(- Now?)

(- No. Only if/when it looks like they're going to kill the hostages. We don't want knowledge of how deeply we've penetrated their defenses to be commonly known if we can possibly avoid it. That would be handing ComStar a free pass. That having been said, if even one of the guards looks at the hostages cross-eyed, screw the plan, and detonate ALL units. We'll worry about erasing the evidence after we get Major Wolf and his people to safety.)

(- Good to go. All units have received activation code and have responded affirmative. No defectives. Looks like we'll get everyone but the Duke and the ComStar _ghoti_.)

(- Excellent. _Those_ two we want alive.)

(- Do they have to be in one piece?)

(- Not if we retrieve Joshua and the others intact and uninjured. If we don't need the vat for the hostages, we can use it for the vermin. Think of it as... _motivation_, people.)

(- Ahhh... gotcha, boss. You heard the man, people. If it's military and it fights back, flatten it. Otherwise, leave the civvies alone. Main target is to flatten the Duke's palace.)

(- The Duke will die before these eyes and he'll know, he'll know, that it is I, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, who encompasses his doom!)

(- Damnit, Barbara! One more _Dune_ quote, and I'm sending you home for the rest of the war! There's a time and a place for gloating over your enemy. And that's _after_ you've kicked his ass and he's in shock-restraints, confined in a holding cell surrounded by your forces, with all of his militaries cowering in defeat.)

(- Sorry, sorry, boss. Uh, may I just say that was a rather poetic turn of phrase?)

(- _*sigh*_ Just... go kill a few tanks or something.)

(- Right.)

~*~

Paul Cranston was one large mass of bruises. One eye was swollen shut, his left ankle was unusable, and his ribs felt like a large and ugly professional wrestler had hugged him until they'd cracked. And yet he considered himself one of the fortunate few.

Whoever it was attacking the New Delos spaceport had hit it hard. He'd just taken a short break to get his crew some take-out food. Deliveries weren't allowed any more, the Duke had banned them to all on duty essential personnel, some nonsense about security. So that meant either eating that cafeteria crap, or having someone volunteer to take a quick "smoke break" and pick up a called-in order at the gate. (The gate guards having been appropriately bribed with snackage of their own.)

This meant that he hadn't been in the radome doing the maintenance he should have been doing when it was hit by a terrifyingly large number of missiles. The control center was intact - more or less - but the dome and the array underneath it were rubble. As were the secondary array and all the commo antenna. The port was going to be blind, deaf and dumb until the military could supply temporary mobile replacements. And given what he'd just seen marching past him, the odds of that happening any time soon were slim to none.

Paul wasn't a 'mechboy wannabe, but he tried to keep as informed of the galaxy around him as a concerned citizen should, and he recognized the 'mechs that had strode past him as _Thunderbolts_. But _Thunderbolts_ didn't have jump jets, did they? And what were those... things ... by their sides? They looked like steel coffins built for short fat people, sitting atop stumpy mechanical legs. Yet, despite their awkward appearance, they were moving quickly, as fast, if not not faster, than a man could run. And whatever that thing was on the end of their left arms, it had the look of a weapon.

Paul's mother hadn't raised a stupid boy. He couldn't run, he couldn't walk, he could barely breath. So he went for option four. No one wastes a bullet on a corpse. Maybe leaving his tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth was a bit much, but hey, no one was shooting at him.

If it's stupid, but it works, it isn't stupid.

He'd have killed for a drink of water, though.

He didn't dare move anything but his eyes. Those got a workout, however. He knew for a fact that if Duke Anton's forces survived this battle, they'd want to know anything and everything about the people who'd hit New Delos, and they'd pay handsomely for the information. Everything he saw would be worth money, and damn it, his health insurance had a "no coverage for acts of war" clause, the cheap bastards! He'd need that cash.

~*~

(- We have what looks like a training battalion out here - guess they had really bad timing, holding an exercise right when we attacked.)

(- How do you know it's a training battalion?)

(- Check the compressed feed. _*0101101....*_)

(- Okay, I have to admit that taking the time to dismount from your vehicle and strip what's obviously MILES gear from it _before_ you start to shoot back at the people attacking you is a rather obvious clue. Nice of them to tag themselves with MILES gear, though. We'll have to remember to tell them "thank you" after the battle's over. You're the senior on-site. How do you want to handle this?)

(- We've got them lit up with TAG. And I feel like some tea.)

(- _*groan*_ Oh, _Wilson._ Not that old line again. Okay, I'll play straight man, smart-ass. "How many lumps do you want?")

(- "Oh, a whole lotta lumps...")

(- All right. A whole lotta lumps are on the way, Pete Puma. And you're gonna pay for that groaner.)

(- As the duck said to the pharmacist, put it on my bill. _*grin*_)

~*~

Paul didn't move, but when he heard the familiar sound of a dropship ramp hitting the ground, he did his best to try and look in that direction. He couldn't quite make out the dropship from his position, but the thundering sound of 'mech feet hitting a metal ramp was unmistakable. Then the 'mechs did him the kindness of actually marching into his field of view. They weren't _Thunderbolts_, they weren't any other familiar design, and he searched his memory for anything that resembled them.

It wasn't like he had anything else to do.

But when their name came to him, it wasn't from newsvids, or even recent history. It was from a historical romantic drama set during the founding of the Star League. He wasn't sure, but those 'mechs looked like the CGI images of the old _HEP-2H Heliopolis_ artillery 'mech from the set of _"In the Forges of War."_

(Paul didn't watch it, not to hear him tell it. He just happened to over-hear the occasional episode now and then when his girlfriend was watching them. Honest.)

There were at least six of them, and he saw them all turning in the same direction. They extended the _Sniper_-class artillery piece that formed their entire right arm and much of the right torso, and before he could react, they began to fire.

As close as he was, the blast pressure was deafening and painful. It was all he could do to refrain from trying to crawl away. As it was, a few (hopefully unheard) moans of agony escaped his lips.

He did retain the presense of mind to count, though. Six mechs - that he could see from his position, that is. Five shots fired by each mech, going by the muzzle flashes. That was thirty rounds, presumably all headed for the same target. Paul had no idea what that target was, but he felt a deep and sudden sympathy for the unfortunate sods on the other end of that trajectory.

Steel rain was headed their way - with a 100% chance of pain.

~*~

Thirty laser-guided _Copperhead_ rounds arced over the city of New Delos, searching for the speckled reflection of a beam from a laser target designator. The original 155mm _Copperhead_ round from the 20th century was considered smart. _These_ rounds were brilliant. While not a true sentience, they weren't far from it. Networked, the rounds shared information with each other, increasing their lethality and accuracy. It didn't take them long to find the reflections they sought, and they plunged towards their targets at trans-sonic speeds, readying the self-forging warheads they contained.

The volunteer reserve mechanized battalion they were targeting didn't even have the time to blink.

~*~

(- Scratch that unit. I pity them. They didn't even know what they were getting into.)

(- If you feel sorry for them, then hold ComStar accountable. They're the ones who spoon-fed these people the lies they're following. Are you clear now?)

(- Roger that. All units are clear, there's nothing on sensors between us and Duke Anton's front door but the mines.)

(- FASCAM's going to take care of that for you while the Duke is distracted with the FAE's going off behind him. Remember, hostages first. THEN the idiot and his puppetmaster.)

~*~

Although Paul couldn't see it, others could.

Several short and rather unimpressive tracked vehicles rolled out of the invading dropships. They oriented themselves, and a box-like structure on their backs rose upwards, tilting to a 45 degree angle. Blast vents slammed shut over all the exposed ports. All of the survivors realized these were rocket launchers. A very few even recognized the type. Or at least what they thought were the type. Arrow IV missile launchers.

They weren't actually Arrow IV's. Though Arrow IV's figured prominently in their ancestry, they were to Arrow IV's as modern man was to _Homo habilis_.

They burst open as they soared over the prominent forward approach to Duke Anton's family estate, scattering hundreds of small objects in a broad swath.

Like the missiles that had carried them, these mines bore a distant family resemblance to the Field Scatterable Mines that the Inner Sphere was familiar with, but comparing the two would be like comparing a man to a chimp.

Each small mine stretched forth with sensors, linking with its brothers into a large networked 'mind' that actively sought out their cousins buried beneath the earth by Marik's troops. Tiny guidance vanes altered trajectories to incercepting courses. Then they all detonated.

In a single moment of fire, a two hundred meter wide swath was cut through the mindfield that Anton Marik thought would protect him until he could force the Dragoons to obey him, a two hundred meter pathway that lead straight to his front gates.

~*~

Several kilometers _behind_ the Marik estate, two dozen missiles approached the burning forests that cut off the other three approaches to the ducal palace. Each missile carried a very large warhead, composed mostly of flammable liquid, with a few enhancements.

At a pre-programmed height, that liquid was vaporized and widely dispersed over the forest, then ignited.

The results were, to say the least, rather loud.

~*~

Impossibly loud thunder filled Duke Anton's office, while the floor shook and objects fell from shelves. The walls themselves vibrated like the head of a drum

"What the hell was that?" Marik spun on one heel, shouting on Vesar. "You said they wouldn't retaliate! You said they _couldn't_ retaliate! What the hell are they using, nukes?!" He frantically stabbed at his communications panel. "Someone report! What the hell just happened?"

A voice full of pain answered. "Captain Johnson, at the perimeter, sir. There's several small mushroom clouds behind the estate. No radiation readings. I think we've been hit by vacuum bombs. The forest fires behind HQ are out. Blown out like candles, sir. The forward approach has also been hit. FASCAMS, I think. They've blown a hole in our minefield too big to cover, sir."

"Then find _another_ way to stop them, Captain, or I'll have your head!"

Kristofur was beginning to wonder if this even _was_ the Dragoons. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like _them_. But that didn't matter. They had Joshua. He'd be in this very room in mere moments. And if the attackers didn't surrender, Vesar would spread Wolf's brains across the wall of Anton's office, broadcasting it live. That would stop them. That _had_ to stop them. But if it didn't - well, there was always the shuttle. Anton always had been disposible, and with the deaths of Major Wolf and the other hostages, Colonel Wolf would _have_ to return to whatever world or worlds he was obtaining his supplies from. And ComStar would have him.

"Johnson. JOHNSON! Report, damn you!"

The officer's voice had gained somewhat in strength. "They're throwing 'mechs at us. The warbooks are reporting them as _Thunderbolts_, but we've seen them use jumpjets. How the hell can they move so fast and still be so heavily armed? They're shrugging off our fire like it's nothing more than spitballs! I've never seen anything like it. We can't even hit their scout 'mechs. I just saw a _Stinger_ sprinting at 130 kph!"

Marik turned to scream at one of his bodyguards. "I want Wolf here NOW! See what's keeping those fools!"

At that moment, the door to his office was opened by an vaguely familiar face. "Sir! Corporal Rolfson reporting with prisoner!"

"Well, bring him in, you fool!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Two burly guardsmen from Anton's personal company of "problem solvers" dragged Major Wolf into the room. The Dragoons officer was shackled hand and foot, with a hobble-chain between his ankles, and a drop-chain holding his arms down to his waist and behind his back, ensuring he couldn't possibly fight back.

Kristofur stepped forward, a smug expression on his face. "Behold the end of your problems, my Duke." He seized Joshua by the hair, yanking the man's head up to face the already positioned camera. "An ear, perhaps, or an eye? That should catch Colonel Wolf's attention, my lord."

"And if that fails?" fumed the furious nobleman.

"Why, then it's simple... we kill his brother."

"That's right, Duke... Kill me... then kill the others. Jaime will burn this planet to a cinder." Joshua spat blood from his battered lips. "We were expendable from the first minute he lifted those dropships. He knew something like this would happen. I was left behind to find out where your loyalties lie." The bruised and bloody Dragoon grinned savagely. "Now he knows... everything! Now!"

With that, Joshua surged to his feet, trying to shake off the two guards holding him down.

"Get down, milord!" Vesar drew his pulse laser and fired at Wolf, only to see one of the guards throw himself in front of the Dragoon, intercepting the beam. Not that Kristofur cared about that, he was too busy screaming in pain as his pistol was now a searing mass of white-hot metal and molten plastic.

The first guard threw himself over Wolf as a human shield while the second proceeded to break the neck of the third guard with an ease that was frightening before he _blurred_ for a fraction of a second, reappearing over Kristofur and stomping on the man's other hand while leveling his own pistol at the Duke.

"That, _milord_, was a serious error in judgement on your part."

~*~

"...object headed west on 104th Street. Is believed to be either an armored trooper or a light mobile armored combat machine. All police units in the vicinity respond immediately!"

_Are they f*cking insane?_ thought officer Kurt Weber. _ We're being raided, there's battlemechs - or __**something**__ - everywhere on the streets and they want us to 'respond'? What the hell do they think we are, supermen?_

"...request full assistance..."

"...massive explosion in district fourteen, police pursuit vehicles believed to be involved..."

_Well, DUH!_ The womanizing officer did his best to ignore the incoming transmissions and become one with the sidewalk beneath him.

"...target located, district thirty-four. Engage..."

"... choppers and trackers in pursuit..."

"...got it...."

Weber could hear a heavy stomping sound close by. He had been ... err.. _patrolling_, yes, patrolling, some of the corners where the local ladies of negotiable virtue were wont to loiter over on 103rd Street when the dropships had begun to fall from the sky. That was apparently too damn close to 104th - whatever the hell it was the other New Delos PD officers had spotted was coming his way, damn it. And then he saw it.

It wasn't a battlemech, or anything else he was familiar with. It was far too small, less than four meters tall. It was squat, pentagonal, and looked implacable. Then it turned in his direction.

_Ohghodohghodohghodohghod...._

"Y'know, that looks pretty uncomfortable, lying on the concrete like that with your tac-radio stabbing you in the gut. If you don't happen to feel any sudden urges to be heroic, you're welcome to just get up and take cover. We don't shoot normally shoot at people who aren't actively shooting at us, you know."

_Bwah?_ goggled Kurt.

The voice sounded tinny and slightly flat, the side effect of any military-issue speaker system, but not really hostile. The stubby metallic thing - which vaguely resembled the results of an industrial exoskeleton having had intimate relations with an air-droppable light tank by way of a steel coffin - waved a clawed mechanical arm at him.

"Hey, you want to just lay there and get stepped on, we got no problem with that. But I'd really recommend getting under some cover, neighbor. Ain't exactly safe out here in the open."

"I— you don't want to shoot me?"

A metallic (and somehow tired-sounding) sigh answered him. "Didn't I just _say_ that, neighbor? Now go on, git!"

Weber scrambled to his feet and ran for the nearest subway exit. The subways had been designed from the very start as emergency air-raid shelters, and most of the quicker-reacting civilians had already gathered there. He sprinted towards the stairs, expecting a round through the back at any second.

As he belly-flopped down the stairs, he caught sight of the thing from the corner of his eye, already turning away. And as welcoming hands from the subway tunnels helped him back to his feet, he heard the fading words...

"And that's supposed to be a 'police officer'? What a maroon..."

~*~

_"When you wake up from a nightmare,_

_And it's worse when you're awake..."_

-- Warren Zevon, "Real or Not".

"That, _milord_, was a serious error in judgement on your part."

Anton Marik thought of himself as a brave man. He'd been planning his rebellion for some fourteen years now, under the very nose of his elder brother. He was courageous. He was dauntless. He knew no fear.

He'd just wet himself.

What he'd _thought_ had been one of his hand-picked hatchet men had killed all but one of the other guards, then somehow managed to cross the room faster than the eye could follow, to break the wrist of his loyal Kristofur. Then he watched, horrified, as the man's face appeared to _melt_, the flesh retreating down towards his neck like milk draining down the side of a drinking glass, gathering in a collar-like bulge just above his shoulders. This revealed a second face behind the first, one that Anton had never seen before.

"What— What in God's name ARE you?!"

There was an agonized groan from the floor. "I'd— ow, dammit, that hurts. I'd like to know that as well. What the f*ck _are_ you, and why did you just save me?"

The second guard rolled to his feet, a now silvery body-stocking glowing with faint heat showing through the laser-charred remnants of his Marik household uniform. "We're insurance adjusters, Major Wolf."

Both Anton and Joshua looked at the speaker as if he'd gone mad. Joshua was the first to reply.

"Insurance adjusters?"

The first guard chuckled. "Someone took out a _BIG_ policy on your life, Major, and given the size of the claim, we decided that it's cheaper to rescue you than it is to pay up."

Joshua blinked in disbelief, then hissed in pain. Even blinking hurt. "That sounds so stupid, it's probably true. Okay, funny man, who bought the policy?"

"Your good friend with the plastic knife in his hat."

"I—" Wolf's mouth snapped shut. He felt like an _Atlas_ had just sat on him, and he had bruises on top of his bruises, not to mention several bones that were cracked, if not outright broken, but operational security had been drummed into him since before he could walk, let alone read. No names, not when names could be used against you. These were _Broker's_ people? What the hell was happening here?

At that moment, Anton chose to try and make a break for the door, taking a deep breath to scream for his guards just as soon as he hit the hallway.

"Stop him!' snapped Joshua.

"No need - there's company in the hallway already."

Sure enough, a third man, wearing a skin-tight suit identical to the first two, walked into the room dragging an almost catatonic Anton Marik with him. By the throat.

"Do we really have to take this one back with us?" he asked the other two men.

"Afraid so," said the first disgustedly.

"I - ow. Damn it, if this is a rescue, are my people safe? Talk to me!"

"Right! Yes, Major, all your people are safe. No one was seriously injured. We have two units making pickup on them right this moment."

"No casualties? How the hell did you manage that? They had nearly one hundred and twenty guards just around us, with a second company in the main compound. And can I get some names? I can't just snarl 'Hey, you' all the time," Joshua grunted.

The first grinned. "Jack Moore, at your service. The goof with the square jaw is Mike Morrison, and the tall drink of water who was just bitching about the former Duke is Norm Walker. We'll be your rescue team for the evening. Tips are always welcome. Now let's get you and the guy with the bladder control problem out of here and back to a nice safe dropship, eh?"

"Sounds good to me," Wolf muttered. He winced as he nodded in Marik's direction. "But won't his thugs have something to say about that?"

"Doubtful," replied Moore. "They seem to have all come down with a sudden and severe case of dead, just like the ones guarding your people."

"How did you—" Wolf's eyes widened slightly as Moore leaned over and snapped the case-hardened chains of his shackles with his bare hands. Chains that would have likely held an angry Elemental. "Oooo-kay. Let's hold that thought, and concentrate on getting the hell out of here."

Jack nodded. "Think you can manage a fireman's carry, Major?"

"I think I can flap my arms and FLY if it'll get me the hell out of here, Jack!"

"Now that's the spirit!" Moore dropped to one knee, and assisted Joshua in getting a grip, then stood. "Mike? You take the ComStar _ghoti_. Norm, you okay with the posterboy for inbred nobility?"

The two meter tall man nodded silently, twisting Marik's arm in a painful fashion to emphasize his certainty. Mike simply threw Kristofur over his shoulder like a particularly lumpy sack of grain, paying no attention to the injuries Vesar had sustained. "Time t' git the hell outta Dodge, pilgrim."

~*~

Wolf's eyes narrowed as he was carried through the hallways of the Ducal palace. As a mercenary, he didn't like the unknown - what a mercenary didn't know tended to get a mercenary killed. Just because he'd been beaten within an inch of his life by Anton's thugs didn't mean that he'd stop observing the situation like a good scout.

And what he was seeing now didn't jibe with the 'facts' as he knew them.

First was what he was seeing in these hallways. Moore hadn't lied. The hallway floor was slick with puddles of blood. There were bodies lying everywhere, all of them clad either in the uniform of the Free Worlds League, or in the rather comic-opera getup that Anton had insisted on for his personal guard.

Every single one of them were missing their feet.

Joshua had once seen a man who'd stepped on a toe-popper mine, a small weapon designed to maim a soldier instead of killing him outright. It had, as the name implied, torn off his toes and the forward portion of his foot, leaving just a stump immediately below the ankle. If his buddies hadn't acted promptly, the man would have bleed to death long before the Dragoons could have captured him.

These injuries were much the same. He couldn't see them all, but all those he could see appeared to have lost their feet from just above the ankle to some explosion, then died of either shock or blood loss.

Okay, he could understand that. But how the hell did people _inside_ a highly defended complex all step on mines?

And it had been explosives. There were small craters - two of them per person - in the floor marking the spots where they presumably had been standing when they died. The hallways looked like a scene from a badly made blood-and-gore shoot-em-up videogame.

"What the hell happened here?" he hissed from over Moore's shoulder.

"Running now, explaining later," Moore replied. "Have to get you and the other hostages to a dropship."

"I'll hold - OOF! - you to that." Okay, next anomaly. There had been - past tense - a fairly solid door in their way. The tallest of his rescuers had simply rammed it with one shoulder, tearing it off its hinges as if it were nothing more than styrofoam. While still draging Anton behind him in a punishing, arm-twisting grip. An Elemental could have pulled that off. But the only Elementals in the Inner Sphere were with the Dragoons. That needed an explanation, if Broker's people would give one. He'd ask politely. It didn't pay to be short-tempered with the people who were risking their lives to save yours. And speaking of asking politely...

_Personal note_, thought Joshua absently. _When we _do_ get to their dropship, ask nicely for the opportunity to introduce Anton and Vesar to a whole new world of pain. Offer large cash incentives, and request audience participation, if possible._

One more door, and sunlight hit Joshua in the face like a fist. It was an open air atrium - or what was left of one. The far wall was now rubble, with a trio of _Thunderbolts_ standing in the gap that they'd presumably made, one watching the skies, the second scanning the ground, and the third now tracking them. A loudhailer addressed them like the voice of the Almighty.

"DROPSHIP IS FIVE MINUTES OUT, JACK. WE'VE ALREADY MADE PICKUP ON THE OTHER HOSTAGES. HOW'RE YOURS?"

"Five by five, Buck. Are we having fun yet?"

"MAYBE A LITTLE MORE FUN THAN WE ORIGINALLY PLANNED ON, BUT NOTHING WE CAN'T HANDLE."

"Good. Sooner we lift off, the better." He tilted his head towards Joshua. "I hear he's got family coming, and they're probably a little pissed. I want to get back to the black before any unfortunately mistakes are made."

(- Damage at the moment, Buck?)

(- The other Amps are having a ball. Marik defenses were a joke. I don't think there's an intact electrical transformer in the entire city, our hardware virii have turned the local network into a password-free joke, and if they have any military hardware left that's heavier than a pickup truck with a light machinegun, we can't find it. _*chuckle* _It's going to take years to put this system back in working order. Whoever inherits this Duchy is going to be cursing Anton's name for the rest of their lives.)

(- I think they're doing that already. I bet we can cheer up Janos, though. He's going to like our gift. What's the butcher's bill?)

(- We haven't lost anyone yet. A few of our 'mechs took minor hits, a lot of gear is going to need repairs, and one scout lost a hand actuator.)

(- How'd that happen? _*raised eyebrow*_)

(- Golden BB. Someone got lucky with a PGM and hit the wrist joint. Go figure.)

(- And the other side?)

(- Duke Moron lost his lifeguards and his household units, no survivors. Units in the city and elsewhere, the estimate is 20% casualties. Fortunately for all of us, they're used to 'we lost, we surrender.' It could have been a bloodbath if they'd gotten stubborn about it.)

(- Central update: C3 to all hands. Prepare for pullback. Message from Sharf follows: "I don't care HOW much fun you think you're having, people, pull back and head for the dropships or forfit all bonuses. And yes, that means YOU, Norville. We are NOT here to play 'blow up the Federalists'. So move it.")

(- Aww...)

Ignoring the rest of the banter, Moore pulled back to the material world and carefully eased Major Wolf to the ground. "Think you can stand?"

Wolf nodded, his face tense. "I won't give the bastards the satisfaction. I'll board your dropship on my own two feet even if it kills me."

Jack chuckled. "Good for you, Major, and I hope it won't. Your brother would get pretty pissed with us, and that's if he got here first. Captain Kerensky wouldn't leave anything behind but a grease spot. You got yourself a wild one there, Major. She looks like she could take you two falls out of three even on the best day of your life."

Joshua nodded, then swore as the action sent a stabbing pain through his neck. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Lucky man."

A scream of displaced air split the sky overhead. "That would be our ride, then?"

Jack appeared to look at something only he could see. "And she's right on time. Shall we?"

"Let's."

Twenty minutes later, Joshua Wolf was watching blue sky fade to black, and smiling so hard his face hurt.

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Colonel Jaime Wolf was confused. He hated that. Being confused in the face of battle resulted in people dying. He had returned to the New Delos system expecting to send Captain Kerensky's unit on a mission of vengeance in the name of his brother, and twenty-seven other hostages murdered in cold blood by Duke Anton Marik.

Instead, his brother's bruised but smiling face was beaming out of the screen on a time-looped transmission, informing him that he and the former hostages were alive and in safe hands (though he refused to specify whose hands those were, not on an open frequency). And that it was now _Anton_ and his closest advisor who were the prisoners.

What the hell was going on here?

~*~

A day later, a _Mule_-class dropship was approaching the Dragoon's small fleet, under the watchful eyes (and weapons) of the Dragoons. Scanned multiple times by every method Major Tulliver's people could think of, it held - or claimed to hold - his brother and the staff they'd left behind on New Delos. But was it a trap? Tulliver's people were frantically trying to discover that. Another dropship, a _Leopard_ that was hopefully more expendable, was directed to dock with the _Mule_ and take on all of it's passengers, who would then be scanned for implanted bombs, bioweapons and other dangers, while the _Mule_ itself would be turned back to the planet.

Margaret could only pray that both Joshua and Jaime would forgive her for this insistence on such extreme security measures. To her mind, it simply wasn't possible that an unknown cavalry had ridden to Joshua's rescue in the nick of time. That sort of thing only happened in the 3D shows.

Didn't it?

~*~

Colonel Wolf smiled as a mortified Major Tulliver escorted his visibly irked brother into his office. He waved Joshua to a seat, and nodded to Tulliver who gratefully took that as her dismissal. As she opened the hatch to leave, Joshua spoke up.

"Oh, Major?"

Dread colored Tulliver's reply. "Yes, sir?"

"I fully understand both the reason and the need for the strip search. But the next time you get _that_ intimate with me, I'm expecting dinner and a movie afterwards."

The Wolfnet officer fled with an entirely understandable look of embarrassment on her face. Perhaps she could find somewhere to hide _before_ Captain Kerensky found out and skinned her alive?

Jaime took off his jacket, laying it, and his symbols of rank, to one side. Joshua did the same, understand this was going to be a brother to brother talk, and not Colonel to Major.

"So... I suppose I'll just start with the classic line here, Joshua. What. The. _Hell_. Just. Happened. Down. There?!"

Joshua grimaced. "I'm not entirely sure, so I'll start at the beginning."

"Always a good place to start," snarked Jamie.

"Hush, you. Anyway – Anton betrayed us, just as you suspected he would. He took my staff and I hostage, but never attempted to question us. We were beaten repeatedly, but never asked any questions of military significance. It was as if they didn't expect us to know anything they wanted. Or perhaps that whatever they wanted, they couldn't get from the hostages."

Jaime nodded. "Either control over the Dragoons -- or information about us. And then?"

Joshua laughed. "And then our lunatic friends from Executive Outcomes showed up."

That sent Jaime's eyebrows soaring. "EO? You're certain?"

"They told me someone had taken an insurance policy out on my life, and that it was cheaper to rescue me than to pay the claim." That wrung a snicker from Jaime. "When I asked who, they said it was my 'friend with the plastic knife in his hat'."

"The only people at that reception were Dragoons, Cranston's Irregulars - and Broker. So either one of our people was talking out of school, or it really was Broker. But that begs the question." Jaime rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Why?"

"Why and _How_, big brother. You should have seen what the interior of Anton's palace looked like as we evac'ed. They managed to kill everyone but Anton himself and his advisor Vesar Kristofur, and kill them before they could take any action against our people. I was the only one who came close to being injured. One of their people took the shot for me, and it was strongly implied that the reason Kristofur's pistol blew up in his hand was because they'd tampered with it." Joshua shook his head. "And when we went through the hallways, every one of Anton's people I could see had lost both feet to explosions, their feet literally ripped off at the ankles. I have _no_ idea how EO managed that."

"So we have many questions, and no answers."

"Actually, one answer. Sort of."

Jaime looked at his brother curiously.

"The leader of their unit, a Rick Sharf, invited us to Porthos in Broker's name. All of us, as in the entire Dragoons, if we like. His words were 'Come see how deep the rabbit-hole goes, Major.'" Joshua laughed. "At least we know they appreciate the classics."

"Do you trust them?" asked Jaime.

"Maybe. But it's not if _**I**_ trust them, big brother. It's _your_ trust they're interested in. My trusting them, should I decide to trust them, is just an added bonus to what they really want. The trust of the leader of the Dragoons."

"I'm that important to them?"

"They appear to have trust issues with all the other leaders in the Inner Sphere. Or at least Broker does, as he's the one offering the invitation," Joshua chuckled.

"That says things I don't really like about the situation, little brother."

Joshua shrugged. "If nothing else, we have a lot of loyal followers who are heavily armed. If we step into an ambush, we'll be stepping into it with some serious firepower on our side."

"Point taken," nodded Jaime. "And on that note, did they say _why_ they were unwilling to hand over Anton and his first flunky?"

"No," replied Joshua. "Only that they had a plan, that we'd hear about it soon, and we'd probably laugh ourselves sick at how appropriate it was. And one other thing, bro."

"Yes?"

"They told me flatly - this wasn't just Anton. It wasn't even just the rebels inside the Marik family. Vesar Kristofur is ComStar, all the way."

"Is that confirmed?" asked Jaime intently.

Joshua's expression was grim. "The _surat_ actually bragged to me about it, since I wasn't intended to survive. This entire rebellion was to first, send us packing for home to get more gear and more recruits so they could follow us and discover our origin."

"And second?"

"Once Anton was on the throne of the Free Worlds League, Kristofur would become the leash around Anton's neck. And through Anton, they'd control a quarter of the Inner Sphere. 'The new Free Worlds League, a wholly owned subsidiary of ComStar, Incorporated.'"

Jaime nodded. The sickening scenario made too much sense, it simply couldn't be laughed away or denied.

"And EO's willing to hand over all the evidence we need to prove that. If we want it."

"Why wouldn't we want it?"

Joshua gently massaged the aching, slowly healing bruises on his face. "Because we might want to wait a bit. They have something nasty planned for Kristofur."

"What would that be?"

"Big brother... if I ever failed you as badly as Vesar's just failed his Primus, do you think I'd want to come home in defeat to face you? And you're one hell of a lot more forgiving than Tiepolo could ever be."

"Ouch." Jaime leaned back in his seat. "That's just outright cruel. Sadistic, even." A smile bloomed on his face. "I think I like it."

"One last thing you better think about, big brother," Joshua said with a smirk.

"What's that?"

"Duke Anton's just 'vanished' from the scene. So has Kristofur. No one's at the top giving orders to the rebels any more, and Vesar's not reporting back to ComStar _about_ the progress of the rebellion, which has essentially been decapitated."

Jaime swore tiredly. He didn't NEED this emotional rollercoaster. "Lovely. So here come Janos _and_ Tiepolo in a race to see who can get here first, FWL forces or the Com Guard. Let me guess -- along with the invitation, Sharf gave you a time table as to when the EO forces are going to pull out of this system."

"Just as soon as their _Mule_ gets back to their fleet, bro."

But Joshua was speaking to an empty cabin. His brother had already dashed through the hatch to find his XO and begin issuing bugout orders to the Dragoon forces. The younger of the two Wolf brothers gave a shrug.

"Well, at least he left the whiskey cabinet unlocked. Thank Nicholas for small favors..."

~*~

"So the attacks against our stations were merely diversions to pull our rapid reaction forces away from New Delos." Tiepolo looked around the room at his innermost circle, displeasure evident on his face.

"It would appear so, my Primus," Matten sighed. "While we have no hard evidence of any sort, the attacks were too coincidentally timed and located. The forces we moved to deal with the self-professed 'Dread Pirate Roberts' had to be replaced themselves in turn, or leave our other stations uncovered. The easiest reserves to reach for were the reserves allotted to Kristofur's plan, which were believed by most to be unnecessary. It seems all too evident now, but at the time..."

"Quite so, Matten." Julian's hard eyes shifted to the younger man who was the temporary head of ROM in Kristofur's absence. "What useful information does ROM possess about the incident on New Delos, Bigelow."

A faint sheen of nervous perspiration covered the man's forehead. When word of the attack had reached Cairo - and the fact that ComStar's hyperpulse generators had been successfully disabled with _no_ idea whatsoever of how it had been achieved - he'd been given access to higher level files that were sealed under _CODE NAME CLASSIFIED/NEED TO KNOW_ access, with Kristofur's personal cipher. Vesar hadn't committed anything truly damning to computers under ComStar control, but the information he was required to record was beginning to form patterns, patterns that Bigelow knew would enrage the Primus. Heads were going to roll inside ROM, and he didn't want his own to be the first.

"I - ah, sir..." Bigelow coughed, then continued. "The attackers wore no unit insignia, nor did they identify themselves as belonging to any particular unit. They did _not_ physically attack any ComStar installation, aside from their shut-down of the HPG's. We are still investigating how that was done. Nor did they attack the ComGuard unit protecting the ground-side New Delos installation. Vesar himself is missing and presumed dead, as is Duke Anton. The rebellion is in chaos, and the Captain-General's forces are sweeping rebel units aside in a sudden push to New Delos itself."

"And how did Janos Marik discover that his brother was no longer leading the rebellion?" asked Julian in a frighteningly quiet manner.

Bigelow took a nervous breath. "The first message transmitted once the HPG came back online was an announcement of the attack on New Delos and the defeat of Anton's forces, sir. The transmission was unauthorized, yet carried ComStar _PRIORITY FLASH_ headers, so it was immediately delivered to the Captain-General without any questions on the part of our people on Atreus."

"Interesting. I presume our message priority codes have all been changed?" Tiepolo's tone was that of idle disinterest - and didn't fool Bigelow for a second.

"Yes, sir. It was done immediately." Bigelow held up a datapad. _Please, PLEASE let this save my life. To hell with my career, I just want my life_. "Something valuable has come out of this incident, sir. Extremely valuable."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "What might that be?'

"One of our minor acolytes had chosen to live 'on the economy'. His apartment was in the line of attack, and he caught a portion of the battle on a home video recorder, my Primus. He also informed his superior of what he had seen, and a retrieval team— it would perhaps be easier to show you, Primus?"

"Do so."

The video was clearly shot by an amateur with a hand-held camera - the fits, starts, and jerky pans were proof enough of that. It began with a brief sweep of the street, showing burning buildings and a squat, ugly machine, much shorter than any battlemech, striding down the road. The machine reminded Julian of an industrial loader, though the weapon mounted on the right arm quickly gave the lie to that first impression.

Duke Anton's troops were attempting to engage the machine with infantry weapons, leading to ludicrous results - at least at first. The squat machine brushed the foot soldiers aside in an almost contemptuous manner, until one of them produced a hand-held anti-armor missile.

The short-range missile was one of the heaviest that an individual infantryman could carry, and at such short distance, it was almost impossible to dodge. Only a last second movement by the machine caused the missile to strike one of it's arms, rather than dead center on what looked like a cockpit. The shaped-charge warhead tore off the lower arm of the machine, the impact knocking it into a nearby building. Bigelow paused the recording.

"The acolyte had the presence of mind to inform his superior of what he'd witnessed, sir, and the limb was recovered. It was on the first ship out, and was forwarded to Earth via a command circuit with the utmost priority, Primus. Two very important things were discovered that explained much of what happened on New Delos and why, sir."

Bigelow forwarded the contents of his datapad to the main briefing screen and began to display the results of the examination. "First, the primary material of the arm is an alloy of tungsten, vanadium and rhenium. This alloy is actually _HARDER_ than diamond, yet still flexes and shears like metal. It makes our best battlemech armor look like aluminum foil, sir, yet it does not require the extra bulk that ferro-fibrus armor or endo-steel structure does. If this is what they make their 'mechs out of, then kilo for kilo, their mechs will outperform anything in the Inner Sphere, sir."

He tapped the datapad again. "Secondly, there is the myomer fiber used in the actuators. In the beginning, our technicians and researchers refused to believe their own reports. The performance of the myomer exceeds anything we know by a significant degree."

"How significant is 'significant'?" asked Tiepolo coldly.

Bigelow coughed nervously. "My Primus, the current state of the art in myomer gives a 100 ton 'mech with a class 400 engine a maximum walking speed of approximately 44 kilometers an hour. This myomer, under similar limits, produced the equivelent of 55 kilometers per hour, and a running speed of 87 kilometers per hour. It could easily give an assault mech the speed of a medium mech without any need to reduce the amount of armor or weapons carried."

Everyone at the table aside from Julian and Matten blinked in shock, imagining an _Atlas_ that could gamble around the battlefield as swiftly as a _Crab_. Bigelow continued on.

"It has two apparent weakness, Primus. It generates more heat than either military or industrial myomer, generating as much heat standing still as other myomers would walking or running. And it reacts badly with myomer accelleration signal circuitry, freezing instantly."

Tiepolo went straight for the heart of the matter.

"Can we _reproduce_ this myomer?"

The fear was clearly visible in Bigelow's eyes as he temporized, trying to avoid angering the Primus any further. "It is possible to produce in small batches in the laboratory, sir. This is both good news and bad, in that we are unable to mass-produce it for lack of proper materials, but the Successor states would not be able to produce it at all."

"Lack of materials," noted the Primus with menace in his voice.

"Yes, sir." Despite the air-conditioned room, Bigelow was now sweating heavily. "There are a number of extremely rare elements and catalysts required to duplicate this myomer, sir, making large-scale production prohibitively expensive. At the moment, it is cost that holds us back. It _would_ be possible to produce enough of it to equip a small number of elite Battlemech units, however. If money were no object, that is."

Tiepolo rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers and peering over their tips at his advisers. "Again, rare and difficult to obtain materials. Does that sound familiar to you, Matten?"

"It sounds much like the large and still unexplained amounts of gold and silver flooding the precious metals market, sir. It sounds a great deal like Executive Outcomes."

"Indeed." Julian looked back at Bigelow. "You will continue in office until I see fit to appoint a successor to Precentor ROM. The investigation into the origins of the Wolf's Dragoons will take second place. All available ROM assets will strive to discover _where_ these suspiciously wealthy Periphery mercenaries come from. You _will_ find the source of their wealth and their homeworld or worlds." He looked to the head of science and research. "Reproduce this myomer. Find ways of reducing the cost, however small such reductions might be." His eyes shifted to the head of the Explorer Corp. "Find me the worlds they are mining for these rare metals. Find them _swiftly_." His gaze returned to the temporary leader of ROM. "Bigelow?"

"Yes sir?" The temporary Precentor ROM was proud of the fact that his voice didn't quaver.

"Kristofur is missing and presumed dead, as is Duke Anton."

"Yes, sir."

"I am... _aware_ of Vesar's ambitions. You will find him, dead or alive. If dead, you _will_ produce his corpse. Failing that, I will settle for yours. Is that clear?"

Bigelow swallowed the large and painful lump that had mysteriously found its way to his throat. "Quite clear, sir."

~*~

Jaime Wolf had chosen to take Sharf - and by extension, Broker - at his word, arriving with a full battalion behind him and Joshua at his side, while Natasha Kerensky was close by Joshua's side. _Damned near _welded_ to his side,_ thought Jaime, amused. She and her entire company were still furious that they hadn't been able to lay hands on the erstwhile "Captain-General of the Free Worlds League", and Kerensky herself wanted to have a long talk with Mr. Broker about that. It had taken all of Wolf's authority to persuade her that "talking" to Mr. Broker would _not_ involve death threats, open gunplay and 'mech-to-'mech combat on her part.

That, Jaime felt, might put a bit of a strain on the good relations between the Dragoons and EO.

Just a bit.

Porthos was something of an eye-opener to the Dragoons. There were more jump-ships around the zenith point than he'd seen around even a provincial capital system. It definitely explained some of the reason ComStar was focusing more on the EO and less on the Dragoons, but nowhere near enough. Hopefully, he was finally going to get more of the truth behind Executive Outcomes. Of course, that might mean EO might get more of the truth behind the Dragoons.

That should make a loyal son of the Clans unhappy.

Shouldn't it?

He rubbed the gold coin in his pocket, a habit that had gotten stronger since his brother's rescue. Jaime wasn't the mystic sort - he'd have never fit in if he'd been taken as a bondsman by the Goliath Scorpions or the Nova Cats. That was more Cranston's style. Yet the irrational belief that Broker and his people were somehow central to the Dragoon's mission was growing stronger with each passing day.

Speaking of which, Cranston's people were here as well. It made Jaime want to roll his eyes melodramatically. Broker couldn't be more obvious about it if he'd invited them all to after-dinner drinks in a drawing room to announce that he'd discovered who the murderer was.

"And the butler did it..." Jaime murmured, getting a strange look from his brother.

"Need a little rest, big brother?"

"No," sighed Jaime. "Cranston's here, Broker's here, too damn many ships are here - the whole situation's beginning to feel like the dénouement of a murder mystery. A detective in a scruffy trenchcoat is going to walk on to my bridge at any moment and tell us 'whodunnit'."

That gave Joshua a bit of a pause. "Hadn't thought about it that way. But yeah, there is that sort of feeling in the air, as if someone's going to 'tell all.'"

"That, and the fact that anything we learn from Broker has to be reported to the ilKhan and Council," noted Natasha, standing by her lover's side.

"Captain, I'm beginning to think that if we tell the Council everything we know about Executive Outcomes, that will result in the Clans launching an immediate attack on the Inner Sphere. And I have the unwelcome feeling that we might not automatically win that war."

"Some might call that heresy," Kerensky pointed out flatly.

Jaime shrugged. "I made a guess about Mr. Broker's people when we first met them. And I suspect he meant for me to make that guess. If I'm right, then our Clans are literally playing catch-up to a people with a five century long head-start. The Clans are good, Captain. We're very good. But are we _that_ good? Five hundred years is a long time."

Natasha gave him a sharp look. "Five hundred years? The founding of the Star League?"

"Just something Broker said that day at Fort Jaime. 'Our libraries and universities never burned. Our factories were never bombed into rubble.'" Wolf frowned. "The Inner Sphere had it's Succession Wars and we had our civil war. If Broker wasn't lying and my suspicions are true, we - Clan _and_ Inner Sphere - are half an eon behind them. Maybe more."

"So they're manipulating us?"

"I'm reasonably certain we're being manipulated. Everyone's being manipulated by somebody. My question - and it should be yours, as well - is this: do we want to go where Broker's trying to lead us?"

"Even if we don't," Joshua pointed out, "the Council will. Someone with free access to Star League technology? Possibly a state that can strike the Clans from behind while they're attempting to retake the Inner Sphere? Even General Kerensky didn't believe in conducting a two-front war. We don't really have a choice. Anything less leaves us fighting in the dark."

A voice came from behind them. "Colonel?"

"What is it?"

"Message from the Porthos zenith jump station. We're being welcomed to Porthos, given a selection of parking orbits we can choose from, and that with your permission, Mr. Broker would be honored if he could dock his _Mule_ with your command jump ship and discuss certain heretofore private matters with you."

"'heretofore'?" Mild disbelief warred with amusement in Jaime's expression.

"Yes, sir. That's how the message read. 'heretofore'."

"Definitely sounds like Jared's sense of humor," Joshua quietly snarked from behind his brother.

Jaime nodded. "Time to see how deep this rabbit hole does go, brother mine." He turned to the messenger. "Thank the station for the selection of parking orbits, inform them when we select one -- and send to Mr. Broker 'Wolf's Dragoons are ready to go spelunking.' Send that immediately."

"Yes, sir!"

~*~

"I'd like Major Wolf, along with Captain Kerensky and her people, to accompany me back to Kyfhon space for twelve weeks, Colonel."

That was perhaps the last thing Jaime Wolf expected to hear. He made certain that his impassive expression hadn't slipped, double-checked his voice for that stern, deliberate command tone, and made sure to look Broker squarely in the eye.

"Excuse me?"

His performance might have been a bit more convincing if his eyebrows hadn't tried to crawl up into his hairline.

"We _know_ you're from the Clans. _You_ know that _we_ know you're from the Clans, Colonel." Jared's expression was amused. "I mean no offense, but the Diamond Sharks gossip like little old women at times." That statement got several amused snorts from some of the older Dragoons who'd experienced Chatterweb rumor and innuendo firsthand. "So we've come to the conclusion that our purposes are best served if you see, with your own eyes, who and what we are."

Broker shrugged ever so slightly. "I'm under no illusion that disclosure will restrain the more impetuous of the Crusader Clans, but the Warden Clans might just have the courage to admit we're a bit too tough a bite for them to chew on. And the best of my people believe that if we can convince the Dragoons of this, the Warden Clans will follow your lead."

"And how will you deal with the inevitable accusations that your 'evidence' is nothing more than a Potemkin village, arranged solely to mislead us?"

"Oh, for shame, Colonel. I'm asking for YOUR brother! Be honest - do you think we could fool him, and Captain - no, excuse me, _Star Colonel_ - Kerensky, AND her infamous Black Widows for a full three months?" Broker chuckled. "We might be able to keep the truth away from him, but he certainly wouldn't believe our lies, and neither would the lovely Star Colonel. Particularly if he's already suspicious, and on the lookout for lies to begin with."

"You seem a trifle more informed than access to the Chatterweb would account for, Mr. Broker."

"A very wise man once said 'the power of gold over the mind of man doth surpass all understanding', Khan Jaime Wolf of the Wolf's Dragoons. And the Dark Caste are but men." Jared nodded at the almost imperceptible flicker in Wolf's eyes. "The bandit caste need food, air and water just as you do. And they find information to be such a minor and unimportant thing to trade for those items." Broker held out one hand, open and empty. "Information for information, Colonel. Simply informing the ilKhan that the bandit castes are 'betraying' them - not that they aren't exiled already - is of great value. I give you that for free, do with it as you will."

"And if my brother chooses to do this? What is involved?"

"Very little, Colonel. There are still some few errands, even today, that are best taken care of in a face to face manner. I need to take care of several such, and they require me to return home for a few weeks." Broker nodded in Joshua's direction. "All he, and the beautiful Natasha, need do is play tourist at my expense. I'm making a gamble here, Colonel, with my own personal funds. I'm gambling that I'm right, and that showing him this will benefit me and my people in the long run."

"And you expect my people to simply walk unarmed into a possible trap?"

For the first time, Jaime saw an expression of shock on Broker's face. Disgust quickly followed it. "Colonel Wolf, I would _never_ insult a guest like that! Demanding a guest disarm in public? That's- that's sick." Jared looked almost nauseated, and Jaime realized he'd struck some sort of social or cultural taboo.

"I'm sorry, I simply assumed—"

"No, no, you had no way of knowing, Colonel." Broker inhaled deeply. "Cultural thing, I realize it wasn't intentional on your part. Still, I should make my position on this clear. Anyone we invite to Kyfhon controlled space is free to bring whatever personal weapons they care to. This includes everything up to and including personally-owned battlemechs. Weapons of mass destruction do require advance notice, but that is not a matter of 'law' but of culture and tradition." He paused, and then grinned slightly. "Well, that and the fact that when someone gets careless with thermo-nuclear demolition units or with Von Neumann machines, we tend to get a little irked. And with my people, there are no prisons."

"No prisons?" Now Wolf was desperately curious. "Then how are things handled?"

"Restitution, exile, and death."

"Mmm. That's very... Clan-like, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Not at all." Broker paused, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes. Major Wolf may bring any weapon he likes, as may Captain Kerensky and her Black Widows. They're welcome to bring along a fully armed and loaded _Union_, complete with their personal mechs, if they wish. In fact, that would be quite helpful, as they can simply dock with the ship I'll be taking home. Cranston will be doing the same."

"Captain Snord will be going with you?"

"Yes," nodded Jared. "For much the same reason as his group was originally created for. I want the Dragoons to have several different points of view about what they're going to see, Colonel." He made a sweeping gesture with one hand. "A great many preconceptions you may have about the universe are going to be challenged. That's never an easy thing for a man to endure. It's helpful to have as many facts to hand as possible when such a change occurs."

"I think you're probably right." Jaime looked thoughtful. "A question, if you don't mind?"

"I don't, but feel free to ask another."

Jaime grinned at the old joke. "Walked into that one, didn't I?" His expression sobered quickly. "Anton's men. I've read Joshua's report, he went into great detail. How the hell did you manage to _do_ that?" Colonel Wolf didn't need to define what "that" was.

"Who cleans your uniforms, Colonel? Who shines your shoes?"

The apparent _non sequitur_ threw Wolf for a moment. "My uniform? Why, that's— Oh. Oh, hell."

The smile on Broker's face was cold even by Clan standards. "Exactly. We saw this coming. You weren't the only people receiving information from inside House Liao. We consider you something of an ally, and definitely a friend. So we infiltrated New Delos some time ago. You'd be surprised how much access you can get to the inside of an opponent's forces if you're willing to accept jobs that others sneer at and look down upon. After all - who can get closer to a target than the target's own servants. Remember Yoguchi Kurita and Snow Fire?"

"You loaded their combat boots with explosives? How the hell did you manage that without being detected?!"

"No, we filled their combat boots - and the buttons on their uniforms, along with a few other items - with nice, sturdy, structural plastics that do NOT trip explosive detectors. It actually improved the quality and durability of their uniforms by a measurable percentage, and saved them quite a bit of money. They should have thanked us, really." A few of the Dragoons goggled at the irony contained in that dryly spoken statement.

"Then how— ?"

"The difference between plastic and plastic explosives is most often merely a little nitrogen here and there, sir. And there's plenty of nitrogen in the air around us. A few nano-machines that can respond to a command broadcast over a mesh network and make a slight chemical change to that plastic..." Broker gave an eloquent shrug.

A number of the Dragoons were looking at Broker with the stunned disbelief of a person who'd just realized they'd mistaken a lethal pit viper for a harmless grass snake.

"And then a second command over that same mesh network - this time to detonate," noted Jaime, calmly. But behind that calm facade, his mind raced, searching for ways to detect this sort of threat, and to defend against it. "After which, your people walk in and retrieve the hostages with no resistance from the guards, who'd by then be bleeding to death from two severed ankles. Viciously effective, with minimal risk to the hostages under most circumstances."

Broker nodded respectfully. "Thank you. We had several backup plans, just in case. It was important to us to retrieve all of the hostages alive."

"For which we thank you." Jaime returned the nod. "That would leave the decision up to Joshua, then. Is there a deadline, or do we have time to discuss things among ourselves?"

"My time - at least for now - is yours, Colonel." Broker rose and bowed. "If I might ask for an escort back to my dropship? And do feel free to call upon us for fresh supplies - I'm intimately familiar with how frustrated people aboard ship can become with canned... well, with canned EVERYTHING, I suppose. When even the air and water are canned, tempers rise. Porthos can't supply _everything_, but my supply people will try to rise to the challenge."

"Thank you, Mr. Broker."

Broker waved it aside with a grin. "It's something of a game to them. The more obscure and difficult the request, the more they enjoy trying to fill it. We had one wit decide to ask for Ovalkwik every time his cargo ship stopped by, and the supply department finally decided that if it was Ovalkwik he wanted, it was Ovalkwik he'd get."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but... what's Ovalkwik?"

"A mixture of glucose, fructose, corn syrup solids, concentrated cocoa-bean extract, assorted methylxanthine alkaloids including caffeine, theobromine, and theophylline, sodium laureth sulfate, minoxadyl, buckminster fullerene, codeine, hyper-ephedrine, nicotine, butylated hydroxyanisole and butylated hydroxytoluene."

All of the Dragoons in the office looked vaguely nauseated at the description. "And he actually ate that?" wondered Colonel Wolf.

"He annoyed so many people with his demands, my supply department _made_ him eat it. He never asked for it again. Now, I have to return to my ship, Colonel. Thank you, and hopefully, all your questions will be answered very soon."

~*~

"Do you want to do this, Joshua? This is entirely voluntary."

The younger man grinned widely. "Just you try and stop me, big brother. These people just knocked an entire planet on its ass, and did it because they didn't feel like paying off an _insurance_ claim! I have _got_ to learn the truth about them, period. I'll go crazy with curiosity if I don't!"

Jaime sighed, and turned to face Natasha. "And if he goes, you're going to follow."

"If you order me to stay here, I'll stay here." Kerensky was stone-faced.

"And we'll be in a Trial of Grievance five minutes after I give that order, won't I," Jaime grumbled. It wasn't a question.

The attempted look of innocence on Natasha's face might have fooled a blind man.

Colonel Wolf took a deep breath, held it for several moments, then let it out slowly. "All right. If you want to go, Joshua, you may go. But I want you and everyone with you to be on your guard. And be as diplomatic as possible. If these people are who I believe them to be, they're another faction in the war that's to come. I'd really prefer to have them on MY side when the shooting starts." He turned to Natasha. "Take your Widows with you — but keep an eye on Koniev. I don't want to offend out hosts by turning a thief loose on them entirely unsupervised."

"I'll see to it," nodded Kerensky. "If he raises a single sticky finger, I'll break it off his thieving hand."

"Good. Assemble your people, brief them, and see to it that they're ready. We'll give Broker his answer just as soon as we finish our replenishment." Jaime and Natasha rose, saluted, and left the cabin to carry out their orders.

_So, how deep _does_ the rabbit hole go, Mr. Broker? As deep as I think? Or deeper yet?_ Wolf smiled to himself in the silence of his cabin. _Khan Ward may yet be vindicated._

~*~

_I love Natasha, but sometimes I think she's a little insane,_ mused Joshua Wolf. He'd just finished moving his personal gear to the _Union_-Class dropship _Widow's Web_. Her sense of humor was entertaining, but more than a little twisted at times. _Though I suspect Broker would be greatly amused by it, given what his people did to Anton. Mental note: find out exactly what they have planned for Anton and that ComStar _stravag_ Kristofur and report it back to Jaime soonest. I wonder if what they plan on doing is... appropriate for a betrayal of this sort. Boiling oil would be nice._

There was a rap at his cabin door. "Enter!"

One of Natasha's people was standing there. "Message for you, sir. Mr. Broker would like to invite you to the bridge of the _Audacity_ once the _Web_ docks. They're going to jump just as soon as Captain Snord's dropship finishes docking."

"Thank you, corporal. Please inform Mr. Broker that I'll be there."

"Yes, sir." The noncom saluted, and hurried away.

Finally. Hopefully, he'd get to see if his brother was right or wrong. Jaime had eventually shared his suspicious about the origins of Executive Outcomes with him, so that he would have someone to check his theories. It had been hilarious to discover that the Dragoons were speculating just as intensely about when EO had come from as the Inner Sphere was about the Dragoons themselves.

He checked his uniform before striding briskly to the docking ring. It wouldn't do to show up mussed. They _were_ trying to impress EO. And he had to admit, he really did want to impress them. He still felt faintly irked that they had needed EO to come to his rescue. He knew it was irrational - the odds of twenty-eight people defying all of Duke Anton's forces were about those of a snowball's chances in a blast furnace. Despite that, there was a part of him that wished they'd put up a better showing, particularly in front of outsiders that he now knew had "seen it all," simply for pride's sake.

~*~

As Cranston, Joshua and Natasha all entered the lift for the bridge, they were noticing the same things. This ship was new. It had the look of a ship that had just successfully finished its space trials, and not the exhausted, used-for-centuries air of the irreplaceable jump ships of the Inner Sphere. It was a jump ship, but of no lineage they were familiar with. Even newly built Clan jumpships were the recognizable descendants of Star League designs. This ship was subtly different. All ships, space or water, were defined by two things - the task they were designed to accomplish, and the aesthetics of the people who'd designed them. Though there was nothing specific Joshua could point to, the over-all feel of the ship was different from anything built by either the Clans or the Inner Sphere.

They reached the deck below the bridge, and exited the lift under the eyes of the unfailingly polite, yet clearly dangerous guards who escorted them the rest of the way. The crew was preparing for the jump, while Broker himself stood in front of an observation dome. He turned and approached them, smiling.

"Thank you, all three of you. I hope you enjoy what you're about to see - and that you'll forgive both my sense of humor and the occasional small joke." His smile widened. "If nothing else, you can take pride in that you're going to be the first people from the Inner Sphere or the Clans to visit our home in over five hundred years. Your names would be in history books, if they weren't already."

Cranston's eyes sparkled. "I have an entire drop ship full of collectors who can't wait to arrive and start buying things. We _will_ be able to get our money exchanged, yes?"

"That won't be a problem," Jared laughed. He looked over at Joshua. "I'm glad you chose to come, Major."

"I'm glad you chose to rescue me," Joshua replied. "I seem to have this allergic reaction to dying."

"Ah, yes - quite a bit of that going around these days," chuckled Broker. He waved them towards some jump-seats towards the stern of the bridge. "Shall we strap down? We jump momentarily."

~*~

Rumor and gossip had quickly spread from Cranston's people to those of Kerensky. So the announcement from the captain of the _Audacity_ didn't surprise them very much.

_"Attention all hands: first jump to take place in ten minutes. This is your ten minute warning. Please strap down and prepare for jump. There will be thirty minutes between jumps, and a three hour layover after the third jump for battery exchange and drive coolant flush. You will have ten minutes warning before each jump. That is all."_

"How far away do you think the Kyfhon are?" asked Lynn Sheridan, curious.

"Can't be that far," replied Koniev. "Even if they can jump three or four times, that's only 120 light years."

_"This is your five minute warning. Repeat: five minutes to jump."_

"You're certain of that, are you?"

"Thirty light years to a jump, Sheridan. You heard Snord's people. They've got drives that can do more than two jumps, but they're still not going any further per jump. 120 light years max."

Strapped to a crash couch, Lynn couldn't shrug, but the doubt was clearly evident in her voice. "Right. You'll just pardon me while I withhold judgement."

"Lynn, if they had anything better, they'd have taken over the Inner Sphere by now."

"And if they simply don't care to?"

"Then they're fools."

_"One minute to jump."_

"Guess we're going to find out then."

_"Jumpi—"_

~*~

Cranston was a little nauseated, but didn't let that get in the way of taking in everything he possibly could. The first three jumps had been similar, if a little slower, than the first trip to New Valencia. The thirty minute window between jumps had helped mightily, fewer of his people were jump-sick, and going by what he overheard of the intercom traffic to Natasha, the numbers appeared about the same for her Widows.

The _Audacity_ had finished exchanging batteries and was in the middle of a 'coolant flush' - and why hadn't anyone in the Inner Sphere ever thought of cooling a jump engine like that before? It worked for 'mechs, so why hadn't anyone tried it on a ship? He chalked up another tally mark on his mental list of 'how the hell did we miss this one?' and took in the vista from the observation deck. The captain of the _Audacity_ had allowed everyone to move freely about the ship during the layover, with the understanding that they'd be back aboard their dropships at least thirty minutes before departure.

Wherever they were, Athos base was impressive for something deep in the Periphery. And he was amused by the classical reference. Porthos and Athos, two of the Three Musketeers. These Kyfhons enjoyed their little in-jokes, sometimes a bit too much. But then, given his own obsessive interest in history, he was the last person who could point a finger at them.

There appeared to be quite a bit of traffic through this base. He'd just seen another jump ship, a huge _Monolith_, passing by on its way out system. Where, he couldn't say. But given the huge amount of processed metals EO was dumping on the market, he could easily guess its cargo. The gold standard, at least in the Inner Sphere, was taking a beating. Along with the silver standard, the platinum standard, and just about every damned precious metal standard in existence.

The voice came over his shoulder. "Impressed?"

Snord grinned, but didn't turn around. "The special effects are nice, but when does the introduction end and the main title begin?"

Jared stepped into his line of sight. "In about thirty-five minutes. Cooling's almost finished, and the thirty minute warning will sound soon."

"Good. I've been wondering about this ever since that trip to Fort Jaime."

"Planning on buying some of our history books?" laughed Broker.

"If you're selling them," Cranston grinned. His expression turned sober. "I think I've guessed who your people are, my friend. Joshua and Jaime too, I'd wager."

"So you don't want to attend the Grand Unveiling? I'm hurt." The mock dismay on Jared's face was amusing.

"Trust me, Jared, you couldn't get me to stay away with a _Battlemaster_."

"How about an _Atlas_?"

"Only if you stepped on me."

The two men chuckled together.

_"Attention. Attention. This is your thirty minute warning. All passengers and crew please proceed toward your bunks or crash couches and strap in. Rift insertion in thirty minutes. Repeat, rift insertion in thirty minutes."_

Snord's ears pricked up. "Rift insertion? What's that?"

The smile Broker gave him would haunt his memory.

"Something wonderful."

~*~

_"Thirty seconds to rift insertion."_

Natasha looked over at Joshua, barely repressing her irritation. Every attempt to learn what "rift insertion" meant simply garnered an annoyingly polite smile from crewmembers, and the statement that she should "really ask Mr. Broker." If she didn't get an answer soon, ally or not, Broker would have a very irate Dragoon on his hands, and she did not intend to remain polite about it for much longer.

_"Rift inser—"_

Jumps between systems were supposed to be instantaneous. They certainly _felt_ instantaneous. An almost immeasurably brief instant of cold and void, a flicker of impossible geometries. But however disturbing it felt (and over ninety percent of all humans felt at least _some_ discomfort during a jump), it never lasted long.

_This_ seemed to go on forever.

The air tasted blue. Her undergarments sounded F-sharp. The overhead lights seemed friendly and outgoing. Then the universe returned to normal.

_"—ertion. Rift exit confirmed. Rift traversal successful. All stations report status."_

"What The HELL Was THAT?" Kerensky almost shouted. She stared at the EO leader, her eyes demanding answers.

"That," smiled Broker, "was us traversing a cosmic rift, Star Colonel. Welcome to the Perseus Arm of the Milky Way galaxy. Mind your baggage, you're a long way from the Inner Sphere. A little over three kiloparsecs away."

For the first time in years, Natasha's jaw dropped.

"Welcome, neighbors, to Citadel Station."

~*~

Joshua _knew_ what he was looking at, but he still couldn't believe it. It hurt his mind just trying to think about it.

It was huge.

Cylindrical. Ninety kilometers long. Forty kilometers in diameter. It made even the Star League's best efforts at space habitats look like a pathetic joke.

It was an O'Neil cylinder. And according to Jared, it was one of his people's _smaller_ cities.

"Great Father."

He turned to look at his lover, who was staring at the station as if she thought it would vanish at any moment.

"I can't believe any of this is real," Natasha breathed softly.

"We'd better. According to the captain, we'll be in the docking queue a kilosecond from now. Then a few kiloseconds later, we'll head to Broker's local office for the 'official' debriefing."

"Kilosecond?"

"I asked the captain. They apparently use metric time measurements. It's about seventeen minutes."

"So we'll get our promised briefing in ... about an hour, then?"

"A little over that," Joshua agreed.

"I think we're in a little over our heads."

"No argument there."

"The Council's going to have a fit when they see this." Tasha's irrepressible good humor was gradually returning. "The Crusader Clans will shit themselves at the very thought."

"To be a fly on the wall of the council chamber when that happens."

"That would be worth bidding for," Tasha laughed.

"Let's go get briefed then," Joshua said as he gave the massive cylinder one more look. "I can't _wait_ to hear this story."

~*~

It took more time than Joshua thought would be needed to enter the habitat. Not that the people were slow or inefficient. No. It was the fact that the outer skin of the habitat was kilometers thick. Literally. It reminded him of the massive stone walls of an abandoned Brian cache he'd seen before they'd left the Pentagon worlds. He suspected that this place could laugh at multi-megaton warheads. They had to traverse ten airlocks to get inside, and the airlock doors... fully two meters thick, perhaps more. An _Atlas_ in all its fury might be able to ruin their paint job. Slightly.

Once they were through the locks, the short trip to the building Broker called his local office was eye-opening, and more than a little frightening. Yet very familiar at the same time. The crowds around them were strangely silent, yet acted as though they were communicating. As they passed a landscaped park, Joshua could see children running and playing, a young woman buying some sort of sandwich from a vender with a hand-pushed cart, young couples on the park benches, holding each other.

It was the fact that the young woman buying the food had fur and a tail that threw him. And she wasn't the only one.

He could hear the Dragoons behind him, some of them uneasily murmuring "genecaste." He had to put a stop to that _immediately_. He turned to face them. "I don't give a damn what your sibko leaders or parents told you when you were little sibbies. The genecaste aren't hiding under your bunks to take you away if you misbehave. These people saved my life and the lives of the Colonel's wife and children. They are potential allies, and they've treated us with respect and dignity. We'll treat them the same way unless and until we're given a reason to do otherwise. Is. That. Clear?"

He was the saKhan of the Clan (sort of) of the Wolf's Dragoons, and he showed it now, emanating hard-won authority, the authority he'd earned in brutal Trials of Position. The Widows went silent, and Joshua could see Snord taking his own people in hand, including a slightly nervous Rhonda.

_Huh. I bet Cranston used those same bedtime stories when Rhonda got out of hand. If he did, he's probably regretting it now!_

The monorail eased to a stop, and their escorts led them to the building. Not that they'd have missed it - the massive ohm and starburst over the main entrance was unmistakeable. It was a nice touch, thought Joshua, and it reassured him. Symbolism was important to humanity. If it was still important to the Kyfhon, then they were probably still human. Despite what they'd just seen in the park.

He could see Jared ahead of him, consulting with a receptionist behind a desk that looked large enough to land aerospace fighters, then nodding with a smile before walking off. A hundred meters and two quick turns later, and they were in a subdued yet elegant conference hall, being escorted to their seats. Despite the pressure he was under, Joshua couldn't help but grin. If he was right, this would be the most fun he'd had in years.

~*~

"So, would you like to ask any questions? Or would you prefer that I simply begin my long and tedious explanation?"

To the surprise of his fellow Dragoons, and everyone else in the room, Joshua's hand shot up in the air like a student's.

Jared looked at him quizzically. "Yes, Major?"

"Ooo! Ooo! Teacher! I know the answer! May I? May I?"

There was dead silence for a moment, and then...

_"Bwahahahahahahahahaha!"_

The Dragoons and the Irregulars looked on in confusion as Broker toppled sideways from his seat, roaring with laughter.

Wolf grinned in triumph. "Got you!"

Jared climbed back to his feet, still chuckling. "And to the victor go the spoils. You choose who talks first, Major."

"Thank you. And here's what I think. I think you're Belters. Or the desendants of Belters, to be a little more precise."

Broker held up his index finger. "Point to the Major."

"You said yourself that your people left the Inner Sphere when Ian Cameron founded the Star League, because you had no intentions of becoming another casualty of the Reunification War. You also told us that Rudolph Ryan was a sympathizer with your cause, whatever it was. I think that means he gave you the technology he created to synchronize sixteen jumpships and control overlapping hyperspace fields in order to move entire ice asteroids from system to system. The same technology we've long since lost with the fall of the Star League."

Jared held up a second finger. "Going strong now."

"You built entire space habitats capable of jumping, and more or less created 'colonies in a box', allowing you to settle an entire system in a single go, without the limitations of a single ship or fleet of ships. Schools, hospitals, factories, everything a colony required, already assembled and working. Colonization without the delays of building a supporting infrastructure, because you imported the infrastructure along with the people instead of building it on site. Entire prefabricated worlds."

"Three for three, Major. Care to go for the high score?"

"I do. When you arrived here, however long it took, you found a number of missing jump ships. Including the TAS _Liberator_ and the Diamond Shark cargo ship you mentioned during our meeting at Fort Jaime." Wolf took a breath, let it out carefully, then continued on. "If an event occurs in nature, mankind can duplicate it, if he wants to. Eventually. You investigated, discovered _how_ those ships got here, and you managed to recreate the process, under controlled circumstances, at will. That's how we arrived here, and what _'rift insertion'_ meant." He waved one hand in a deliberately melodramatic fashion. "That's all I've got. Now it's your turn."

"And the Major wins the cigar!" Jared cheered, giving Joshua a wide smile and a respectful salute. "Refreshments all around, and then I'll fill in the _rest_ of the story. How's that sound?"

"Sounds good to me. I'll have a beer." With that, Joshua flopped back down in his seat and grinned at the rising tide of astonished babble surrounding him.

~*~

Cranston nursed his beer (nice, dark and filling, just the way he liked it - whatever else the Kyfhon were, they brewed an excellent beer) and watched his people carefully. Obsessions and personal loyalty could carry a person only so far, and his unit had just gotten a severe shock. He suspected that as soon as this refreshment break was over, Broker was going to start rewriting a _lot_ of what people considered to be factual history, and there were a few in his company who wouldn't take that happily.

He glanced over at the Dragoons with amusement - Joshua was enjoying a beer of his own, and taking great pleasure in watching Captain Kerensky ride herd on the visibly shocked members of her Black Widows and giving her lover dark looks in return. Cranston suppressed a laugh. He'd suspected Joshua had put the pieces together just as he had, and the young man was clearly enjoying himself. Though Joshua would probably pay for it later that evening in Natasha's bed, if he wasn't mistaken.

He carefully caught Joshua's eye and nodded. The younger Wolf brother casually nodded back, and picking up his own beer, ambled over to where Natasha was dressing down the more audible of her people. Time to get this conference back on track. They might have weeks, but they didn't have time to waste. Every hour was precious.

A few words in her ear, and a few short, sharp words from her to her people regarding punishment details, and things were calm once again. He glanced in Broker's direction, who'd already noticed the interaction, and had noticed him noticing it. A good man, but then, he'd already known that. A tiny salute with his beer mug, a minuscule _'go ahead'_ gesture that would never be seen if you weren't already looking for it, and Snord could see the sharper edge resurface on Broker's face.

"Ahem!"

Faces turned towards Broker.

"Now that everyone's refreshed, I hope, perhaps a little melodramatic exposition is in order at this point?"

Joshua laughed. "Enlighten us, oh wise one!"

"Indeed!" grinned Jared. "As the comedian over there already knows, my people are the descendants of Belters. Is anyone here _not_ familiar with who and what Belters are?"

A mass shaking of heads ensued.

"Good. Now, here's the _rest_ of the story, the parts you don't know." Jared scratched at the back of his head, then started in. "In the early years of the 21st century, the United States of America, joining a coalition of Western nations, became the dominant power on Terra after the Second Soviet Civil War. Not _everyone_ was happy with that. That fact was made clear enough by the riots in Brazil in 2098 AD. What _wasn't_ made clear was that after those riots took place, a quiet movement began. A movement to do something about what was perceived to be the failures of the _de facto_ world government."

"Your people," said Kerensky. "The Kyfhon."

"What would eventually become the Kyfhon, yes." Broker continued on. "A loose coalition of anarcho-capitalists, libertarians, propertarian agorists and others formed, and came to an unwelcome conclusion. That conclusion was that given the power of the Terran Alliance and its ability to control orbital space around Earth, there simply was no way they could remove the Alliance from power without themselves becoming the same dictatorial authoritarians they loathed and feared. This led to a second conclusion. That they had to leave the planet."

"And they headed for the Belt," nodded Joshua.

"And they headed for the Belt," Jared agreed. "At that time, the Alliance was desperate for resources, to the point of resurrecting the ancient Homesteading Act of the American West. If you could get out there and start grubbing metals out of a rock, you could claim that rock for your own. Oh, they insisted that they retained sovereignty, and they would parade a few ships past your homestead to remind you they had the big guns, but your day-to-day affairs were your own. The Belt was simply too large and too dispersed to impose a police state upon it and still have settlers who'd move there of their own volition.

"So, that's where we headed for. The High Frontier. The Kearny-Fuchida jump drive hadn't been invented yet, so the Belt was the _only_ frontier available. Both Western and Eastern Kyfhon proceeded to pool their funds and left Earth behind, drawing colonists from every English-speaking nation along with much of Japan, Korea and Southeast Asia."

Broker paused and grinned. "The per capita percentage of colonists we garnered from Hong Kong and Macau was impressive, to say the least.

"But the success of the Deimos Project sent the entire Belt into financial free-fall, pun not intended. It became cheaper to colonize and mine a vaguely Terrestrial world in another system and ship the raw materials back to Earth by jumpship than it was to homestead an asteroid in freefall. This meant that for us, it suddenly became much less costly to purchase a stake in the Belt — and beyond.

"We settled, we grew, and oddly enough, we remained more true to our founding cultures than Earth did. Terra became more cosmopolitan, its various cultures amalgamating and diluting each other. At the same time, it grew more oppressive, yet less likely to look our way. We were happy enough, though cautious.

"Then came the Outer Reaches Rebellion, the civil war between the Expansionist and the Liberal parties, and finally — Admiral James McKenna. And we took notice. We grew concerned."

"But why?" asked Rhonda Snord. "Why worry about him?"

"Because his first act after cleaning house on Terra was to force all of the former Alliance worlds to join the Hegemony. At gunpoint, if need be. Not something we looked forward to."

"Okay," Rhonda replied. "I can understand that."

"Good. That was when we came to a decision. Rudolph Ryan had been one of us, philosophically speaking, and had sold us his technology for synchronizing the jump fields of multiple jump ships - making them into what amounted to one single, giant jumpship. His only limitation on our purchase was that we were not to share it with anyone else. That was in 2195 AD.

"We didn't let it remain at that. We'd been slowly drifting outwards, further from Earth. The Belt had discovered that when your culture covers an area as large as the asteroid belt, the terms 'travel' and 'communication' take on new meanings. Earth failed to notice that the Belters were slowly turning towards jump ships as a means of getting around the Outer system."

"Impossible!" interjected Colin Maclaren. "There aren't enough pirate point-"

"They weren't using pirate points, Mr. Maclaren. If you're far enough from the central star of any system, the local space is relatively 'flat', to coin a term. You can jump anywhere you like. It's simply been ignored, for the most part, because the distance is such that you're at least a month, if not more, away from the nearest worlds using your fusion drive. To flatlanders like yourself, the natural reaction is 'what's the point? it's just a waste of fuel to jump that far outsystem.' To a Belter, who's trying to get from the spinward side of the Belt to the anti-spinward side - often a distance of half a light year or more, it's a practical and useful, if rather costly, tool."

So," interrupted Joshua, "What did this result in?"

"Excellent question, Major. It resulted in our testing, improving, and eventually _using_ Mr. Ryan's invention to move entire habitats, as you've already guessed. Sixteen jump drives, tied together with his proprietary technology, proved to be enough to move entire munditos out of the Sol system. We kept _that_ fact to ourselves, of course."

"Of course," snarked Joshua. His face turned serious for a moment. "How many did you lose in testing it?"

"Too many, Major. Too many."

"Even one can be too many," agreed Joshua, a tired expression crossing his face. "But please, continue. You were moving entire... munditos?"

"Spanish for 'little worlds', Major - there were a great many Texans amongst us, almost as many as founded New Dallas. Tex-Mex strongly flavors our civilization."

"I think I see where this is going, Jared. If a jump ship loses a drive, there's little they can do about it. If the system they're trapped in has no habitable worlds, they're doomed. But if a habitat is large enough, they could not only repair their own jump drives, they could _build_ their own jump drives. Merely stop over in some system with germanium and other materials to be mined, gather what you need, and there you have it. Food, water, air - you either grow it or mine it. You're self-sufficient. With an adequate breeding population, you could keep jumping outward until you reached the galactic rim." Joshua cocked his head, thinking almost audibly. "And I'm betting your first reason was what you just mentioned. Moving entire stations around the Outer Belts, from played-out mines to new strikes. Take your entire mining colony with you to the latest motherlode."

"Indeed. Although we kept that a close secret from all but our own, and a few allies in the greater Belt civilization. By this time, we'd mostly receded to the Oort Cloud. Not as much metal there, but it was private and quiet, just the way we preferred it.

"The centuries rolled by, and then - suprise! Ian Cameron came along with his idealism, and his belief that humanity had to be forced into one single political unit, for its own good. And that if a few billion people had to die to achieve this, well... such a pity."

Broker's jovial expression had vanished. There was no hate, no anger, just the cold, implacable look of a machine, remorseless and unfeeling. Joshua knew instinctively that this was the Broker who'd ordered the deaths of everyone inside Anton's palace and who had no problems doing so. And that he wouldn't want to have to face this one across a battlefield.

"So we left.

"It was a gradual process - mundito after mundito, slowly jumping about once every other megasec."

"Megasec?" interrupted one of the Irregulars.

The humanity returned to Broker's face as if someone had thrown a switch. "My apologies. When you live on a mundito or a station, the day/night cycle is whatever the builders set it to be. We went metric with time a very long time ago, and since I've come home, I've begun thinking in metric again. A megasecond is approximately eleven and a half Terran standard days.

"Getting back to the story, we began to jump across known space, using stars that hadn't any Earth-type planets. If you couldn't colonize the system, no one was interested in it. This made them well suited for jumping in and out without being noticed."

"Makes sense," nodded Cranston. "Wouldn't be till much later that systems like those would have jump stations placed in them to shorten trip time. So you could wander around the galaxy like space gypsies."

"Interestingly enough, one tribe of the Rom joined our exodus, Cranston. They still wander from system to system in their own habitats. Nice folk. We like them. But I digress.

"We continued onward until we reached this area, about 10,000 lights away from Terra. Far enough, we thought, that we'd never have to worry about Flatlanders or Federalists again. Our migration was slow and gradual. Since we were taking our own worlds with us, there really wasn't any urgency as long as no one followed us. Or so we thought.

"Then that _idiot_ Amaris pulled his little coup, kicked the Inner Sphere into unending turmoil, and we had to get the hell out of Federalist space then and there. Our last munditos were leaving Sol system even as Amaris was trying to subjugate the rest of the Belt."

Broker took a sip of water from the glass in front of him, and continued. "We left a few contacts behind with our cousins in the Belt. For reasons I'll soon make clear, the contacts had their own reasons to hide from everyone in the Inner Sphere, and they remained _very_ quiet, as they had no burning desire to end up on dissection tables."

That statement reminded everyone in the room of what they'd seen on the way to the building, and an uneasy murmur moved through the hall.

"So you _are_ genecaste!" Nikolai Koniev accused.

"No, Mr. Koniev, we are not. We _do_, however, pay close attention to something you flatlanders do not." Broker waved at the room around him. "We're in a habitat, Mr. Koniev, not on a planet with a nice, thick blanket of atmosphere to block ionizing radiation. Long term exposure to low-level radiation does unpleasant things to the genepool. We started taking precautions against that _centuries_ before the Clans were even a gleam in General Kerensky's eye."

"And that was?" asked Joshua carefully.

"The IBM GR/W-43. The human genome had long since been sequenced, and DNA is merely digital information expressed in chemical base pairs. The International Business Machines Gene Reader/Writer model 43 could not only read DNA, it could write it from scratch, building a new DNA string that had never existed before in nature. Or repair pre-existing strings that were damaged by radiation or chemical exposure."

"You repaired your damaged DNA," stated Natasha. "And eventually, began to improve it, I'll wager."

"Editing out inherited genetic disorders, for the most part. Though, as our technology in that area improved, a few small permanent improvements were made. But ONLY after we'd studied them to death, made absolutely certain they were safe _and_ required for life in space, and were compatible with the greater genepool of humanity. And one major improvement, from the viewpoint of the Inner Sphere. Which brings us right back around to the question you haven't asked yet. Namely, why we're choosing to again have anything to do with the Inner Sphere. You simply need to ask the _right_ question."

"All right," said Joshua. "What _is_ the question we should be asking, Jared?"

"Look at me, Joshua. Look at me carefully. How old am I?"

Joshua's mouth opened, then snapped shut again. He paused for what seemed like an eternity to the others in the hall. "You look - you look about forty-five, maybe a well-preserved fifty."

"Thank you, my friend. Now multiply by three. My birthdate is about a megasec away. I'll be 142 years old, Terran standard time. And barring violent death, I can expect at least another hundred years of good health. Possibly more."

The entire hall had gone painfully silent.

"And before you ask - yes. The procedures can be applied to people other than the Kyfhon." Jared paused briefly. "Now draw your own conclusions, Joshua."

Babel re-ensued.

~*~

Tempers were clearly frayed by the time Joshua and Cranston regained control of their people. "Would you like to explain that, Jared? I know you enjoy the 'mysterious stranger' act, but I'd like to think we've gone beyond that by now."

Broker frowned, then nodded. "Quite right, and my bad, Joshua. I'm guilty of being something of a Socratic teacher at times, answering questions with questions. A useful technique, but very annoying to the person on the receiving end when they're not a student of yours. All right, then. Let's recap.

"The Clans are, sooner or later, probably sooner, going to move in force against the Inner Sphere and 'restore the Star League'. We all know what their intentions are. But what about their _unintentions_, my friend?"

Broker eyed them all sharply. "As Joshua himself just stated a few moments ago, anything that can be done once can be done twice. Simply knowing that it _can_ be done is often half the solution. You know it's been done, so you keep trying to replicate it for yourself."

"You're implying something's going to happen twice, and that's why you've returned," stated Natasha flatly. "And that something is what, exactly?"

"With all due respect, Captain Kerensky, are you under the delusion that the Crusader Clans will take the entire Inner Sphere in a single night? It took the original Star League twenty years to subjugate the Tauran Concordat, and the Clans, while exquisitely skilled and trained, haven't the resources of a united Inner Sphere to back them as the League once did.

"Over the past thousand years, if you average it out, humanity's spread outward from Terra at a rate of almost one light-year _per_ year. And you yourselves have proven that it's possible to leave the Inner Sphere, rebuild ones civilization - so to speak - and then _return._"

"Oh, Great Father!" groaned Cranston in sudden realization. "It's going to _splash!_"

Broker nodded in his direction. "Exactly. If - and that's a very big _if_, by the way - the Clans successfully steamroll the Inner Sphere, it's still going to take years to subjugate it all. Meanwhile, people with the intelligence to realize what's happening and the information that the Clans themselves were able to go from an exiled army to a virtual Successor State with nothing more than a few colonies and some time to themselves will try to do the same damn thing. They'll grab jump ships and take off into the big black, trying to get away from you - and some of them _will_ have the idea of coming back someday to return the favor. Now, think like the Clanner you were. What should you do to deal with such a potential threat?"

"Track them down," said Joshua bleakly. "But when we do that, we'll encourage more people to flee. Which means we'd have to try to control colonization. We'd have to search all vaguely habitable planets for unauthorized colonies - and put preventative garrisons on empty worlds to keep them from being used against us. And that means—"

"That the people trying to evade the Clans would jump even further into the deep Periphery," Natasha noted, her voice flat. "We'd have to deal with that by establishing some sort of pre-emptive method of exploring systems, finding new worlds and garrisoning them before colonists can reach them. So they'll jump further yet to escape us. And we'll jump further trying to prevent them from doing so. Further and further, simply to try to keep the new Star League safe from angry Periphery colonists wanting revenge. And eventually..."

"Eventually, you'll run squarely into us," nodded Broker. "Centuries before you were predicted to do so. We _had_ thought that our three thousand parsecs - and yes, Citadel Station's the closest station to IS space - would buy us at least three thousand years of peace and quiet before we came back into contact with the rest of humanity. As you can see, we were calculating on the one-light-year-per-year exploration rate the Inner Sphere had seemed to be going by. Well, that it averaged out as, anyway. However, like all plans made by mortals, it got a swift boot to the metaphorical groin from Fate. Our three thousand years of quiet looks to have been reduced to three hundred. Or less. Probably to within my lifetime.

"Our resources, our sciences, our life-extension treatments, our very _homes_, they'll all be wanted by someone. And many of those someones won't want to pay. Clan or ComStar - doesn't matter which, they'll demand, not ask. They'll simply try to stick a gun in our collective faces and say 'hand it all over, you're a member of the Star League now.' "

"And that's what you've been fighting for centuries to avoid." Joshua's face was grim. "You're not going to give in. You'll fight. And you'll fight with things we don't have any longer."

"We'll fight with things you _never_ had, Joshua. We _began_ as orbital miners. Do you realize what that means?"

"No, but I know you're going to tell me."

A frustrated sigh came from Broker's lips. "Joshua... the asteroids were easier to mine because they came pre-fragmented into nice, bite-sized pieces. It occurred to us a _long_ time ago that if we weren't going to live on a particular planet, and we weren't really that concerned about it anyway - then why not make our _own_ asteroids? There's a _lot_ of valuable, high density metals locked up inside of a planetary core."

Faces went white around the room as they realized what he was implying.

"Planet crackers. To you, they're world killers. To us, they're just another mining tool. And they're among the _smaller_ of the tools we have at hand." Jared shook his head. "But you'll see that for yourselves. We agreed to disclosure, and disclosure is what you're going to get. But I didn't promise you that you'd like it."

Joshua looked at him for a long moment. "I don't recall requesting such a promise. You saved my life, and the lives of my staff, my sister-in-law, and her children. That buys you a lot of credit with me, Jared. Let's spend some of it now."

"Thank you, Joshua. That means a great deal." Broker visibly relaxed. "Now, if you'd like, we've laid on a picnic on the grounds behind the building, along with an animated presentation of some of our culture and technology — though with us, that tends to be one and the same. So if you'll come with me?"

~*~

Cranston suppressed a small burp and tried to keep from licking his fingers. That simply wasn't civilized. He didn't know how many lost secrets of the past had been preserved by the Kyfhon, but from the way his people had dug into the provided meal, the Colonel's eleven herbs and spices had definitely been saved from the dustbin of history. He turned his attention back to the huge holographic projection that occupied most of the center of the grassy field. (And that itself unsettled him no small amount - that these people were able to built habitats so huge, a field this large could be considered just a 'lawn.')

He eyed the image with intense curiosity, paying close attention to the scale indicator along the bottom edge. Like the station he was currently in, it was huge. Twin contra-rotating cylinders, each about 52 kilometers long, linked together at their end points by a sturdy frame and surrounded by a pair of giant, cone-shaped reflectors. He drew his attention back to what Broker was saying.

"— are three layered dichroic mirrors. Each layer reflects only one color, while letting all other light pass through. The three layers used reflect red, green and blue, generating an artificial white light that's much cooler than natural sunlight, and less of a heat burden on the mundito. They're also quite useful for generating heat for various industrial processes."

"Including smelting?" asked one of the Irregulars.

"Including smelting, but that's only one use, and nowhere near the most important." Broker turned towards Joshua. "You've been wondering where all the money comes from, how we can afford all this, how we can fund what we've done."

"Yes, I have to admit that I've had the occasional stray thought about it cross my mind," Wolf chuckled.

Jared waved at the image, and it reformed into a wire-frame diagram. Two long thin threads were highlighted as they passed through the axis of the cylinders.

"The light from the mirrors _looks_ white to the unaided human eye, but it's really three colors, and each of those colors is a single frequency. If you take a tube, cover them with spare mirrors - let's say, just the red and the blue - any light entering the tube would be a single, pure frequency of green. Then, fill the tube with methyl isopropyl mercury and carbon dioxide—"

"Holy Crap, it's a _laser!_ A _solar-powered_ laser! Pumped by sunlight!" Shorty Sneede choked. "Good lord, how big is it?"

"Twelve meters, Mr. Sneede."

"Crap, twelve meters long, that's..." Shorty did some quick math in his head. "That makes the capital lasers on a Warship look pathetic."

Jared grinned. It wasn't a nice grin. "You mistake me, Mr. Sneede. Not twelve meters long. The tube is one kilometer wide and twenty kilometers long. The _beam_ is twelve meters in diameter. The effective range exceeds 100,000 kilometers. I hope you understand that, for the moment at least, we wish to keep the maximum range to ourselves."

The only sounds that could be heard were those of the local staff bustling about, serving food and drinks. It was a long and very quiet moment until Joshua managed to clear his throat.

"You're using it to refine - no, to _mine_ - the asteroid metals. You're slicing them up like sandwiches, then smelting them down for the precious metals. How much and how fast?"

"The average mundito can refine about one cubic kilometer of nickel-iron every 15 megaseconds. Roughly two cubic kilometers per solar year per mundito. And we have a great many munditos. In this system, the nickel-iron grades out to a little under 0.76 parts per million of gold. Process one million tons, you get 0.76 tons of gold. In one year, that's about twelve thousand tons of gold per year per mundito. There are similar amounts of platinum, osmium, irridium, and so on. Not to mention impressively huge amounts of copper, which is still quite useful in many industries. Would you like some silver? So far, we're finding about twice as much silver as gold. If we dumped it all on the precious metals markets, we could crash not just a single Successor state, but the economy of the entire Inner Sphere."

Broker's face twisted up in a wry expression. "And don't even _ask_ about the amounts of uranium and lead - the blasted stuff is gumming up the condensers and clogging the refineries. You're wondering how we could afford what we've done? I tell you now that what we've spent so far is merely the _donations_ of people who are concerned about the welfare of their distant cousins they'd left behind. Not to mention their own welfare, first and foremost. Cash donations, and volunteer labor, Joshua. And the volunteer effort is actually more valuable than the cash. _That's_ how wealthy we are."

"I think-" Joshua paused, collected his thoughts, and continued. "I think, speaking as a military commander, Jared, that it's time for me and my people to fall back and regroup before you drop any more info-bombs on us."

"You're my guest here, Joshua. Take all the time you need. While you do that, I'll tend to the affairs that called me here."

"About that...? I don't mean to pry, but you said you had things to do that couldn't be done except in person."

To Joshua's amusement, Jared suddenly looked deeply embarrassed. "I, uh... I believe I mentioned that my birthdate is about a megasec away?"

Wolf began to roar with laughter as he realized what Jared was implying. "A birthday party? They've trapped the head of Executive Outcomes into a surprise birthday party?"

Jared shrugged helplessly. "I'd managed to avoid the last three, and then my stockholders rose up in revolt..."

Joshua continued to pound the table with his fist, laughing helplessly, his people and Cranston's joining in the mirth.

"It's not that funny, people. Condemnation! It's not that funny! Really!"

The assembled mercenaries continued on, lost in their laughter.

~*~

O'Neill cylinders didn't have "day" or "night" as a planet might know them, but a light/dark cycle was ingrained into every Terran-based life form since the Precambrian Era. The Kyfhon weren't any different in that respect. Their habitats simply controlled the length of that cycle, and for now, it was "night."

The Widows and the Irregulars had been offered their choice of accommodations in addition to the default option of returning to their dropship, and Joshua had decided that a statement had to be made as to whether or not they trusted the people of Citadel Station. And more importantly, if they trusted Jared and Executive Outcomes.

So now both units were ensconced in a luxury hotel that any billionaire in the Inner Sphere would have been proud to call his own. Understated, yet elegant, without making a group of rough and ready mercenaries uncomfortable, they had settled down with a certain subdued wariness after assigning members of both units to maintain a night watch.

They were trusting, but they weren't stupid.

Joshua and Natasha had chosen to take a room together, and the two lovers were in bed, discussing the day's events.

"So we simply play tourist for two weeks?"

"We do," Joshua shrugged. "Jaime wants all the data he can get on these people, and so far, as long as we play nice with them, they'll play nice with us. Jared and all his people - all the people from _here_, that is - seem to share the same belief that once contracted, hold to your contract to the bitter end. I don't know if that's always true of the people he's hired from the IS, but his own seem to abide by that." The younger Wolf brother chuckled. "Trapped by a surprise birthday party - I'm not going to let him hear the end of that, and I know Jaime certainly won't."

Natasha surprised him with a girlish giggle. "You have to admit, for Mr. Grim-and-devoted-to-his-word, it _was_ pretty embarrassing. I wonder if he'll ever live it down?"

"Maybe in a few decades," Joshua grinned. His expression shifted to the serious. "If he's telling us the truth about their antigerone treatments, then he's right - the Clans might not want it, but the Inner Sphere certainly will, and should ComStar succeed at becoming the core for a new Star League as Khan Ward warned us they might, they'll _demand_ longevity treatments as their God-given right. Once they know such treatments exist, that is."

"And that means war."

"And that means war. But what kind of war?"

Natasha cocked her head and blinked. "What do you mean?"

"We fight with weapons, and occasionally with politics. ComStar fights with politics, and occasionally with weapons. But Jared's people seem to fight with money, Tasha. Impossibly huge amounts of money. That's not a weapon we're used to fighting with. We're used to fighting people who _have_ it, but back in the Cluster, did you ever really think about money? About how to buy things? And what to buy them with? We're military. Food, clothing, weapons, quarters, vehicles, even mechs; they were items that were issued to us if we needed them, and withdrawn if we did not." There was a pensive look on Joshua's face. "Remember the Second Terran world war? The United States of America fought and won their war by out-producing and out-supplying their enemies. Even their most bitter rivals attested to this. It's possible to be wealthy and militarily incompetent. It's possible to be martially skilled, yet poor. But a nation that's both competent in war _and_ wealthy? That's a dangerous enemy to have."

"So, what do we do _tomorrow_, Major Wolf?"

"We play tourist, just like Jaime and Jared want us to. We look, listen and learn. Then we report back to my brother. And what do you mean, _tomorrow_?"

Natasha reached under the blanket with a questing hand, a happy smile on her face. "I already know what we're going to do tonight."

Joshua laughed, and turned off the bedside lamp. For what came next, he was reasonably certain he wouldn't need a light.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

Seething, Janos crushed the paper in his fist, wishing instead that it could be the throats of the arrogant bastards that had sent it to him. How DARE some ha 'penny group of third-rate Periphery mercenaries send him a _bill_ for the room and board of his rebel of a brother!

Worst of all, it _was_ a bill. Not a ransom, not a demand for a bribe. A _bill_. The... class of accommodations... in which they claimed his brother was being held were compared to various hotels on Atreus, the current rates for similar suites were listed, and a running total was kept of how many nights Anton had spent (and would spend) in them, along with a listing of the meals proffered and _their_ costs.

The text of the invoice attached to the note glared vividly in his mind.

REGISTRATION ... AU 1.000 GRAMS

ROOM (PER CYCLE) ... AU 2.000

COMMISSARY (PER CYCLE)... AU 0.530

PLANETARY ASSAULT (NO CHARGE, AS PER CUSTOMER REQUEST)

He fumed. If anything, the truest insult lay in that, if the - no, he refused to call it a 'bill' ever again - the _request_ was accurate, his brother was being kept neither in a prison nor in a palace, but in the sort of everyday quarters that a commoner might stay in during their travels. Traitor or not, Anton was still of the nobility, and treatment of this sort was an insult not merely to Anton, but to the entire House of Marik.

And yet...

Pay it, however insulting, and his brother would be turned over to him, with no questions asked. Refuse to pay it, and his brother would simply be turned loose to make his way back to the Inner Sphere. After paying the bill for his stay, of course.

The note made it quite clear that the bill _would_ be paid - even if Anton had to wash dishes to do so.

The implications of the final paragraph were chilling. It claimed that Anton's backers were the same men and women who'd approached him in 2988. Those who had survived his father's purges of their ranks, at least.

He had to discover who was responsible for the defeat and capture of his brother. Find them and squeeze every bit of information about the conspiracy from them - from their corpses, if need be. He would never be safe, his _family_ would never be safe, until the conspirators were dead, and at the moment, only Executive Outcomes had the names he needed.

It couldn't be helped. He'd choke to death on his own pride, if need be, but he wouldn't risk his family's safety over it.

He'd send the money. In gold, as they'd requested. And once he had Anton in his grasp, he'd bury the bastards in SAFE operatives, bury them up to their eyeballs in agents, informers and turncoats. There wasn't a man alive who couldn't be bought, and he'd buy someone inside their group if he had to bankrupt the League in order to do so.

Once he had the names he needed, however...

_They_ would be the ones who would pay.

oOo

Tiepolo's face was calm and composed - until one noticed the rage blazing behind his eyes. Rage that, Bigelow noted thankfully, was not directed at him. But that could change in an instant.

"Kristofur is alive, uninjured, in our hands, and you _cannot_ obtain any information from him, Bigelow? Would you care to elucidate?"

The telltale sweat again broke out on Bigelow's balding forehead. He desperately wished the earth would open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

"We are unable to _communicate_ with him, Primus." The nervous man rapidly paged through the small sheaf of notes he'd brought with him. "Even under rigorous interrogation, he made no sense, in the most literal meaning of the phrase, sir. Not even babble, but random words. I took it upon myself to order a complete medical exam, beyond the simply physical required for interrogation subjects." He found the page he was looking for, and swallowing thickly, began to read from it. "The subject currently suffers from total receptive and expressive aphasia. Any verbal requests directed towards him are perceived as incoherent sound, written questions as a meaningless jumble of random marks. This is a result of an unknown substance in his bloodstream that appears to be targeting the Broca and Wernicke areas of his brain, effectively paralyzing all of his language functions. He cannot understand what we say, and anything he tries to say emerges as-" Here, Bigelow paused, and rechecked the page. "-emerges as 'word salad'? Yes, word salad. Either words that emerge at random, or entirely random sounds that don't form words at all."

"The physicians assigned to Kristofur will write a briefing, no longer than three pages, one that assumes the reader has only basic first responder training in medicine. They are to see to it the briefing is delivered to my office within the next two hours. How long do they believe this condition will last?"

"At least two weeks, sir. Attempts to filter out the substance in his bloodstream appear stymied, it replenishes itself nearly as quickly as they remove it, and it appears to bind itself tightly to the affected brain cells."

"If Vesar is no longer able to speak or read, is he still capable of any form of communication whatsoever?"

For once Bigelow had some good news. "Yes, my Primus, though it will take some time. The experts in this particular field inform me that such patients have existed before, and that due to the structure of the brain, only speech and writing is affected. Gestures and music are not."

"I am not _interested_ in music, Bigelow."

The _de jure_ head of ROM did his best not to flinch. "Sir, while the understanding of language is affected, anything musical or gesture-based uses different areas of the brain. The doctors tell me that if I _said_ his pants were on fire, he would not understand me. But if I _sang_ a song about fire, he would understand it, albeit unclearly. The damaged areas of the brain are effectively bypassed. Previous patients have been taught sign language, and managed to communicate successfully despite total loss of verbal and written skills."

"Teaching Kristofur a new language will take time."

Bigelow nodded his head like a bobble-doll. "Yes, sir."

"Vesar has always been bright. Once he understands that you are trying to teach - or in this case, re-teach - him how to communicate, you will do your utmost to convey to him my urgency in the matter of his re-education. Is that clear?"

"I understand, sir. I - Ah, sir?"

Julian frowned. "What _is_ it, Bigelow? You have your orders, carry them out."

"There is something unusual that requires attention, sir. A thumb drive was found around Kristofur's neck, of the sort commonly used to contain the medical records of patients with chronic conditions who may collapse in public and require specific treatments. It was checked, as is routine. There were no medical records, but there was a brief note from what would appear to have been his captors, along with —" Bigelow shook his head. "I had this checked several times, sir. Along with a number to one of our own escrow accounts. The note was rather blunt. It informed the reader that Kristofur's condition was deliberate, temporary, that the author of the note deeply regretted the necessity of inflicting it upon him, and that by the author's own ethics, they owe Kristofur compensation for what had been done to him. The account was checked. It is a legitimate escrow account, and the amount matches, to the C-bill, six months pay at Kristofur's current public pay scale, including hazardous duty pay for his undercover work."

Julian rested his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers together. "Interesting. This says things about the nature of the people we have encountered. Are your profilers working with that information?"

"Yes, sir. They hope to have an initial psych profile of Kristofur's captors within seventy-two hours." Bigelow winced slightly. "I'm told there will be errors due to insufficient information. Once he's been taught sign, and can describe the events of his capture, they will improve it."

"Then see to it they do so. The information within Kristofur's head is extremely valuable. Take... appropriate measures to encourage young Vesar to relearn his communication skills." A last thought occurred to Julian. "Bigelow."

The nervous leader of ROM froze just in front of the door to Tiepolo's office. "Sir?"

"You said six month's pay."

"Yes, sir."

"See to it that this information reaches Vesar's doctors. If the money is intended to be true compensation, and not merely a diversionary tactic, paying for six months of his service would seem to imply that he will be unable to communicate for six months."

Bigelow blinked. "I— I am sorry, sir. That connection had eluded me."

"Now you know. Use that knowledge."

"Yes, sir. I'll see to it right away."

Bigelow exited the office of the Primus, then leaned against the wall of the hallway, feeling faint. He was a bureaucrat, not a spy. The sooner someone else was appointed to this position, the happier he'd be. Looking back on the situation, accepting that promotion to shuffle papers and manage logistics for Kristofur was the worst mistake he'd ever made in his entire life.

If he survived this debacle, he'd apply for a position in some minor Class B HPG facility on the Periphery. Far, far away from Terra. As far away as possible.

oOo

_We know you hired the Dragoons to aid Anton, Maximilian. And Janos will know soon. Others have evidence of your involvement. They carry that evidence to Janos even now._

"Shut up!"

_We know you think to replace your son Tormano with an imposter. To replace Hanse Davion in a similar fashion. A reasonably sophisticated plan, if overly complex. And risky. Rather like one of the plans ComStar might have come up with. But then, you've been having talks with ComStar._

"Shut up! Get out of my head!"

_Why? This is just information, Maximilian. No threats, no actions taken against you. You're receiving warnings about how and where and when your plans could catastrophically fail, and you're not grateful? How shallow of you. Really, you should appreciate this._

Chancellor Liao smashed his fist against a mirror in his private quarters. It broke into glittering shards, spraying across the marble floor. The bodyguards did nothing, said nothing. They had been studiously ignoring their Chancellor's actions for some days now. If the Son of Heaven wished to argue with inaudible voices, who were they to pass judgement? Perhaps he spoke with the spirits.

_You should take some defensive action, Max. After all, DNA analysis would prove who your frauds were, and __**that**__ is in ComStar's best interests. Lead you by the nose to do something they want done, then trap you in a situation like that, and limit your options so that you would be forced to come crawling to them to defend you against the Mariks and the Davions. Come now, you know this is true, you'd do it yourself if you were in ComStar's position._

An angry, wordless snarl came from Maximilian's lips.

_But then, it's not like you have anything to look forward to, you know. The genetic degradation in the Liao line is quite clear. From here, it looks like at least Romano has inherited the flaws. Pushing the limits of human cunning, but at the cost of madness. Like yourself._

Liao set his jaw firmly, determined to ignore the voices once more.

_That's up to you, Max. Just remember - you no longer have any secrets. And perhaps just as importantly, you have additional information. You've been told what the others know about you. What information they have about you that they can use against you. What would a warrior do if such information lay in the hands of his enemies, Maximilian? Perhaps you should think about that._

The voice went away, and Maximilian tried not to sigh with relief in front of his bodyguards. To do so would be an appalling lack of control - and would mean he'd have to execute several well-trained guards, which would be a waste of resources.

One of the glass shards at his feet caught his eye. He looked at the reflection of his face. His hair was askew and faint black rings circled his eyes. He needed rest. Rest and silence from that damned voice before it returned once more. And he would _not_ think about the information it claimed to provide, or the suggestions it made.

No matter how appealing those suggestions were beginning to become.

oOo

Joshua viewed the invitation with interest as he sipped his morning coffee. It was polite, yet to the point. He, Natasha and Cranston were all invited to a private meeting with Jared while the rest of his people were escorted around Citadel Station on various sightseeing tours.

The question in his mind was 'Why?'

He looked over to Cranston. "Opinions?"

Snord took a moment to compose his thoughts, then went ahead. "I think this is about strategy, not tactics, Major."

Joshua motioned for him to continue.

"I'm the leader of the Irregulars. You're second to Jamie. And Jared made it clear he knows Natasha's rank and standing in the Clans. We're as close to a representative section of Clan society as he can get without actually importing a few active duty Stars."

Natasha snickered at the mental image Snord evoked. "Okay, that was just silly, but Cranston has a valid point. Everyone else - plenty of skill, but no political position. The three of us have enough status to matter, politically speaking."

"So it's not so much a matter of who we can shoot, but of who we can convince."

"I think so." Cranston's expression was intent. "Looking back on it, yesterday's briefing was general interest, so to speak. But there was so much that wasn't said. HOW do they intend to deal with the Inner Sphere. How do they intend to deal with the Clans. What specific methods will be used. And most importantly - how and where do _we_ fit in to their plans?"

"Politics," sighed Joshua. "I _hate_ politics."

"So does Jamie," noted Natasha. "That's why _you_ get stuck with them."

"Not helping!"

"It wasn't intended to."

Joshua laughed. "See, Cranston? This is what you get for falling in love with a strong woman."

"You could have fallen in love with an Elemental," Snord pointed out dryly.

Joshua's face sobered. "Opinions now. Do either of you have any idea why Jared's mentioning a need to make restitution to me, and to the Wolves?"

Cranston frowned thoughtfully. "No offense, but I've known him longer than you have, Joshua. Given his – and his people's, apparently – sincere belief in this crazy anarcho-libertarian system of theirs, he must feel he owes you something. And it must be fairly costly, or he would have mentioned it and settled it up while we were still in the Inner Sphere."

"Okay, that's more than I had before. Any thoughts on what that might be?"

Snord shook his head, beating Natasha by only a second.

"Then we accept, and hopefully end a little more of the mystery around the situation."

"Actually, I don't think it's going to last for much longer, Joshua." Natasha looked thoughtful. "They did say they were going to come clean. Broker sounds like you or Jamie do when you have a plan and you're ready to have the Dragoons carry it out."

"And I hate being part of someone else's plans when I haven't the slightest intel on what those plans are." Joshua rose from his seat. "We accept his invitation. Cranston, you and Natasha make it clear to your people that we're on our best behavior - I don't want anyone screwing things up until we know where we stand. And given that nearly everyone we've seen is carrying heavy, getting stupid could mean getting dead."

Both commanders nodded.

"And Tasha? Have Ikeda pound that into Koniev's head. With real hammers. His sticky fingers could get him shot. And could piss off the people who control our ride home."

Kerensky grinned grimly. "I'll have Ikeda break his fingers one at a time, if that's what it takes."

"Good. Meet back here in five, then."

Cranston raised an eyebrow. "Eh?"

"Because while you're running around doing that, I'm going to take a moment to enjoy another cup of the hotel coffee. I don't know where they get it, but I want to buy several kilos to take home."

"HEY! No fair!"

Joshua smirked. "Command has its privileges. Now let's get going."

oOo

Jared's office was still as impressive as before. No ostentatious displays, simply efficiency at a level that impressed the Dragoons. Efficiency that was beginning to confirm certain suspicions all three of them held.

"Notice the digital blocks on or below every sign?" murmured Cranston. "What do you want to bet-"

"Later. Let them bring it up first." interrupted Joshua.

"Right," replied the leader of the Irregulars. He had suspicions, and curiosity was slowly eating away at his self-control. As they entered Jared's office, they could hear him grumbling under his breath. It wasn't in any language they recognized, but profanity was obvious in any tongue.

"_iXteq aNg-_ ah. My apologies." Jared looked up as they entered, and waved a hand at the holographic displays surrounding his desk. "Evidence of my people's essential humanity, I suppose. Despite centuries of obsessively correcting every genetically based error we could discover in our branch of the human race and being annoyingly smug about the general superiority of our society over that of the Inner Sphere, we can still screw up in spectacular fashion. One transposed digit, and several megatons of noble metals ends up on the wrong side of the galaxy." A map of the Milky Way replaced one of the graphics, and two small dots began to blink. Joshua looked at the relative distance, did the numbers in his head and winced.

"That one has _got_ to cost someone, I bet. Or is going to cost them."

"Extensive Enterprises. They're the people who built the same _mundito_ you're standing in. They build a LOT of the habitats in Kyfhon space. They subcontract their security needs with my company. And since it's pertinent to this meeting, you should know that the gold, silver, platinum et cetera, that just went astray was _supposed_ to be headed for the Inner Sphere, as a hedge against our future expenditures there." He waved at the chairs. "Please, sit, sit."

Joshua sat first, and sighed in comfort as the chair began to massage his back. "Damn. First the coffee, and now the office chairs? Proof of your technological superiority, at least. Now, what is it we need to know? I speak for all three of us when I say we've guessed that this discussion will be political, but not the particulars."

"Got it in one. First, the most important question. I have to tell you things you're _not_ going to like. You want them fast and blunt, or do you prefer the old soft sell? Because you're not going to like what you're going to hear and might lose your temper."

"We're Dragoons. We'll take it fast and blunt," replied Joshua.

"Good. The question that was never asked nor answered in the previous meeting is 'If you're so damned advanced, why don't you just kick ass across the Inner Sphere, end the problem and go home?' It has two answers. And they both use the same word. Numbers."

"Population?" asked Cranston. "But if you use iron wombs as you've said then why— oh. Zero population growth."

"Exactly. No offense, Cranston, but we're NOT flatlanders. Planets are explotable resources, not homes. Not to us. Look around you. The air you breath, the water you drink, even the cubic space you're occupying, that all has to be paid for. And by my people's culture, it has to be paid for _in advance._"

"You paid for our trip here," noted Natasha. "That includes our stay, obviously."

"Yes. But regular inhabitants? It's not 'pay as you go' here. Children are _planned_. No one has a child unless they have the resources in advance. Inability to support your child in their youth is seen as one of the worse crimes imaginable here. And bringing a new life into a _mundito_ that has a fixed upper population limit..." Jared shook his head. "Stupid beyond measure. And as we all - with but few exceptions - use iron wombs, there's no such thing as 'unplanned' children."

"Why don't you just increase your population the way the Clans do, with entire sibkos at once?" asked Joshua, curiously. "In twenty years, you could have entire armies standing by."

"And once the conflict with the Inner Sphere is over, where exactly would we _put_ them, Joshua? It's not as if we can bring a thousand _munditos_ online overnight. That would strain even our resources. Which brings me to the second point. The other end of the situation."

Wolf raised an eyebrow. "That is...?"

Broker stretched out an arm, which proceeded to cycle through the primary colors, then several camoflague patterns as the former Clanners watched, fascinated. "Smart suits. We all wear them. Nanoscale skin tight quasi-intelligent suits that can support life even in death-pressure environments for weeks at a time. Handy if you live in pressurized environments, as breathing vacuum is hard on the lungs."

"I've noticed that," Joshua said dryly.

"Good. No offense, but most flatlanders rarely do."

"None taken. But why are they a problem? Because you're implying that they are."

"You noticed the abilities of the team that rescued you and your family."

"I did," nodded Joshua.

"I have bio-engineered implants that have terabytes of internal storage. My suit has petabytes of on-board storage, and can link to our networks, which have yottabytes of accessable data. It's called the librarian problem. You can become lost in the infinite ocean of information. And we do."

Joshua sat upright. "Lost? Define 'lost'. I don't like the sound of that."

"We call it obsession, Joshua. Kyfhon live long lives. We can become fixated on one subject - so much so that we become disconnected from reality. Some even go catatonic, lost in constructed realities that exist nowhere outside of their own minds." Jared shook his head. "One of the reasons we tend to accumulate resources. It comes right back to paying for what you use. If you can no longer function in society and need to be cared for, who pays for it?"

"In the Clans, that's usually solved by _solhama_ units. Obviously, that isn't the case here," Cranston said.

"Exactly. One of the major money-makers in Kyfhon space is insurance. But the other solution is to make your obsession work for you. Take my chief of intelligence. He's an excellent example. He's obsessed with Sherlock Holmes."

Even ten centuries later, that name was still one to conjure with. "How does an obsession with a fictional detective- Ah." Wolf grinned. "Who better than Earth's greatest private investigator to have as your head spy?"

"Quite. But I digress. Most Kyfhon can function despite their obsessions. Some even _because_ of their obsessions. But those who can't..."

"Aren't of any use in a conflict," Natasha said quietly. "Yet until they die, they won't be... replaced. It's not quite negative population growth, but close to it."

"So, even with our advanced technology, numbers will out. We could defeat ComStar handily. We could win if we faced the Clans. We could even handle both at once. But the trillions of fast-breeding flatlanders of the Inner Sphere? There's only one way we could win _that_ war."

"Turning your mining tools into weapons of genocide," sighed Joshua.

"Precisely. And that we refuse to do. So instead of a war in the light, it's daggers in the dark. We're striking first, and we're using money and intelligence to do so. Which is why I owe you a debt, Joshua."

Wolf gave the older man a level look. "This is the part I'm not going to like, isn't it."

"You're not getting Anton."

Joshua's face morphed into a blank mask as he stood up. "He tried to kill my wife and children. My brother's wife and children. I want him. He's _mine_."

"I know. But we have need him. We need to _use_ him."

"And where does that leave us, Mr. Broker."

Jared set both hands flat on his desk, palms down. "I freely acknowledge the debt I owe to Joshua Wolf of the Wolf's Dragoons. I acknowledge that I have taken that which rightfully belongs to him. I acknowledge that this debt is one I cannot repay. Joshua Wolf may call for any of the Three, at his choice. Restitution, Exile, or Death."

Joshua Wolf sat back down again with a thump. That was the last thing he had expected to hear.

oOo

_**Medical research station.**_

_**Sanilac, Federated Suns.**_

"Looks like they hit the research station, just as predicted."

"Wish we could have gotten here sooner, before they managed to kidnap the scientists - ComStar's being a real dick about this."

The taller man shrugged. "In the end, it doesn't matter. The Maskirovka are going to learn what it means to irritate the Winterborn. The boss wants it made clear that when we say that personal identity is the ultimate property right, we mean it."

"Too bad we can't get there in time to hit the compound," stated his second-in-command.

"I know. But Liao is in the Tikonov Commonality, too far away to make it without giving things away. These flatlanders might not be too bright, but they do keep an adequate watch for intruders this deep in the Sphere. If someone notices the same faces traveling from one world to another faster than they can, red flags will go up. Timing is everything. We can't afford to press that too hard before we're ready to make a stand. _Nacht und Nebel, camerade._"

The other man shrugged. "If wishes were _munditos_, we'd all have habitats. Orders?"

"Scan the compound for anything that might have been left behind, make certain we document every byte in case we ever need to turn the info over to the FedSun spooks, then withdraw and report. We want to make certain that when the time comes, we can pin Operation _Doppleganger_ squarely to ComStar's forehead. Like a nice big bullseye."

"All the better to make them a target, dearie..." snarked the second man.

The tall man nodded again. "And the time _will_ come when we put a round right through the ten ring, square between their eyes. _Carthago delenda est._"

"_Carthago delenda est,_" echoed the rest of the team grimly.

oOo

Natasha took up quickly for her lover, fixing Jared with hard eyes.

"Explain. Give us a reason to choose. Tell us _why_ you're doing this to us."

"Because ComStar wants to make their Primus the new First Lord of a second Star League, and Operation _Doppelganger_ is one of their plans to make that happen." The head of EO slid several sheets of paper across his desk. "Hard copy for you both. All three of you need to read this. Then it's up to Joshua. His choice. As the offended party, and by my deliberate acts, he has the right to choose. Even if that means I meet him at his time and place with the weapons he wants." Jared nodded towards the papers. "Welcome to our nightmare, Natasha Kerenski. Welcome to knowing just how low ComStar is willing to stoop in pursuit of their so-called _faith_. Take all the time you need to read that. It's your lives I've meddled in. It's your right. Your choice."

The Bloodnamed woman looked at the hard copy with deep suspicion, but picked it up and began to read it quickly. Her eyes hardened. "You claim this is true?"

"By my name and honor, I say that the information on those pages was gathered by our spies inside ComStar and is the truth to the best of our knowledge. We have chosen to act upon it in self-defense." Jared's tone was uninflected, inhumanly self-controlled.

Natasha put her hand on her lover's shoulder. "Joshua, you had better read this, then choose. I will stand beside you whichever choice you make." Her verbal contractions had vanished.

Wolf accepted the pages and began to read, eyes moving faster over the words with each passing paragraph. "This— this is _insanity!_ They expect to replace the House Lords with _imposters?_ And that no one will NOTICE?"

"The Toyama faction of ComStar is already moving to establish a body double for Thomas Marik, who is a religious fanatic devoted utterly to the word of Blake. Assistance is also being provided to Maximilian Liao, to create a mind-wiped and mentally controlled double of Hanse Davion. Chancellor Liao believes that he will then be able to use the double to control the Federated Suns. What he does _not_ know is that ComStar has similar plans for him and his children. The first two imposters are merely... test runs. With Maximilian as a dupe to conveniently take the blame _for_ ComStar, in the event of discovery."

"And you have no intention of facing a reunited Star League." Natasha stated.

"We do not. Operation _Doppelganger_ cannot be allowed to succeed. Even a single success would spur ComStar to greater efforts. They already dream of reinstituting the ancient custom of fostering, requiring all House heirs to be raised in - and _by_ - ComStar run boarding schools, creating a generation of loyal fanatics who will cheerfully accept and obey the Primus as the new First Lord of the League. Or die in convenient accidents while at school. Such a shame."

Joshua passed the papers over to Cranston, distantly proud that he hadn't crumpled them in his fist and thrown them into Jared's face. "And Anton is the key. You're going to use him to expose this— this _filth_, without the need of exposing _yourselves._"

"We are."

"And you expect me to sit calmly by, while you steal my vengeance."

"No. I expect you to do what you need to do. But whichever choice you make, it's _your_ choice, Joshua. Your _right._ I stole something from you, and in the end, you are the one who chooses. Restitution, Exile, or Death."

"I— need time. Time to think."

Jared nodded. "My time is yours, Joshua. Literally, in this case. My life - or death - won't change the events the Kyfhon have set into motion, but it may change you." He slid a small card across the desk towards Wolf. "Whatever you choose, this contains information you and your brother will need to survive ComStar's machinations. And this is merely what we have discovered. There's likely much more. _Doppelganger_ is the least of their efforts. They've been planning towards this end since Conrad Toyama ascended to the Primacy." He rested his arms on his desk. "I'll wait here, for however long you require."

"No attempt to run?" Joshua asked tightly.

"That would dishonor us both, Joshua."

All three Clanners nodded respectfully, then rose to leave.

Joshua paused at the office door, then looked back to Broker. "It sounds utterly wrong, but— thank you."

Broker matched him with an equally wry smile. "And from my side, however obviously inappropriate... you're welcome."

oOo

Cranston flipped through the images on the card, speed-reading through what was rapidly becoming a nightmare.

"You were wrong, Joshua. This isn't madness. This is— " Snord paused and shook his head. "I don't think there's actually a word for this. Not in any language I know."

Natasha nodded. "A plan to _drug_ every leader and politician in the Inner Sphere? A hidden armada of Warships from the Star League? _Clones?_ This is not madness, this is badly written melodrama!"

Joshua looked at her sharply. "Then you think this is all a ruse? That Broker is lying to us?"

"I only wish he were," she sighed. She waved a hand at the images on the screen. "These files read like a trashy espionage thriller on the holovision. The sort of garbage you buy at the spaceport to kill time during a boring dropship flight. But when you consider the fact that ComStar already controls all interstellar broadcast communications, it makes a deranged sort of sense. There is a method to ComStar's madness, Joshua. We already knew that. This... this is the eventual end of their grand, insane desires."

"Do you think they can succeed?"

His lover shrugged. "Does it matter? If these documents are true, they intend to _try_. And win or lose, the Inner Sphere will suffer for their ambitions. You already know that."

Snord held up his hand. "More to the point, we already have some independent verification, Joshua."

"I didn't quite follow that," blinked Wolf. "What and where?"

"We have the records of the Exodus, Joshua. General Kerenski left a number of ships behind. General DeChevilier kept records in his logs of the WarShips too badly damaged to take along. No _sane_ shipwright would bother trying to salvage those wrecks, except as something for the breaker yards and the smelter. But most of the Titan shipyard was captured intact. We have records of that, as well." Cranston tipped his head to one side, thoughtfully. "While no one every accused ComStar of being sane. Add three hundred years to that, and a single system - Sol - that they control utterly, and you can salvage and rebuild a small fleet. Space is vast, ships are small. Keep them away from the traffic lanes and you can hide a small fleet. And however small, even a small fleet of Warships is more than any of the Successor States have. Like the old saying goes, 'Something beats nothing.'"

"Huh," grunted Joshua thoughtfully. "Snow Raven would probably go through them like a dose of laxative, but there's nothing in the Inner Sphere that could stand up to even something as feeble as a _Vincent_."

"That we know of," warned Natasha. "All we have are these files. And how trustworthy are they?"

Joshua sent a curious look her way.

"Trust or distrust of Jared aside, how did they _get_ these files?" asked the Black Widow.

"Shame on you, Tasha," grinned Cranston. "Isn't it obvious, what with Joshua sitting right in front of you?"

"All right, now _I_ missed one. How is that again, Cranston?"

Snord turned to Joshua and rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Tell us again how they got you out of Delos without losing a single hostage."

"They blew the feet off every one of Anton's men. Obviously."

"And they managed that how?"

"By turning the plastic in their shoes into _plastique_, using... oh, hell." Realization hit Joshua like a bag of bricks.

"Nanomachines," Cranston nodded smugly. "Fifty C-bills says that ComStar is up to their eyebrows in bugs. _Self-assembling_ bugs."

"Dangerous," noted Natasha. "Very dangerous. If things like that ever got out of control... and transmitting what they have heard back to these people would still be a problem. If you can be heard by one person, you can be overheard by every person within range. Still, the idea of ComStar, master of all communication in the Inner Sphere, having their own communications security penetrated like that - it gives me warm and fuzzy feelings inside."

"I'd likely have them too, if it weren't for how we found this information," Joshua sighed. "I feel confused. I don't _like_ feeling confused."

"I can give you a little help there, Josh." Cranston's grin was lopsided, but still a grin. "Their data-web's pretty extensive, Jared wasn't kidding about that, not at all. But a call to the front desk and they had a helpful AI search engine running on my terminal before I could hang up on the line. Best of all? It's charged to the room, which is charged to-"

"Our host," Natasha laughed. "Oh, that is ironic. So what did you find out?"

"First, Restitution. Just what it sounds like. If Josh chooses that, they go to a neutral bonded Adjudicator - that's a capital 'A', by the way - that they both agree upon, and it's decided what Jared's offense against him is worth. If there's a price they both agree upon, Jared pays up, Joshua collects, we go home. Everything's happy, story's over.

"Second, Exile. Again, just what it sounds like. If nothing the adjudicator suggests is acceptable to both parties, Jared has to leave 'civilized' society until he _can_ come up with something you find acceptable, Joshua."

The major frowned. "I heard some quote signs in there, Cranston. What constitutes 'civilized' society?"

"Everything that's Kyfhon, basically. I caught that too, so I called a bonded adjudicator—"

"Called?"

"Yep," Cranston nodded. "Right there on the terminal. Just requested a station directory, a sub-window popped open and I called the first available adjudicator, and asked her. Paid her for her time, and that's that. Charged it to the room again, might I add."

"I would love to see Jared's face when he gets that bill," sniggered Natasha. "If it comes to it, he has just paid for someone else to give out advice on how to get his own ass kicked."

"— so the adjudicator tells me that 'civilized' society is everywhere a Kyfhon is. The Inner Sphere doesn't count, but any IS property owned by a Kyfhon does. Even Jared's own company. There would be no going home for him until he settles things with you to your satisfaction."

"And death?"

Snord's face settled into a bland mask. "Not really different than a Circle of Equals back home. The only real difference I could find was that since Jared's actions were pre-meditated, and he freely _admits_ to the pre-meditation, you, as the offended party, have additional options. You can call _all_ of the shots, Joshua."

"Define 'all', Cranston."

"You set the time, the place, the weapons, and can choose augmented or unaugmented. And believe me, Josh, you don't want to choose augmented. I _triple_ checked this. What you saw back on New Delos? What the team that pulled you out was able to do? That was the _least_ of don't hide it at all. Not here, anyway. It's like genecaste technology taken to the Nth degree." Cranston suppressed a small shudder. He was an adult, damn it. He'd behave like one. He didn't believe in the genecaste boogeyman any more. He was too old for that. "Lab-cultured tissues, bio-engineered implants - they make Elementals look like the fabled forty kilo weakling, Josh. Which means that, as the offended party, you can insist on handicapping Jared if you feel that's what you need for a fair fight, and he can't say a word against it."

"It's really that bad?"

"A normal human doesn't have a chance against them, Joshua. I don't think even a Trueborn has a chance. And then there's the skinsuits they wear. When you add those into the odds... do you really want to go hand to hand with someone who can probably walk out of an airlock and stand there in hard vacuum, _grinning_ at you?"

"No. No, I don't."

"Didn't think so."

"So, what choice do I make?" Joshua asked tiredly.

Snord looked at him oddly. "The same choice you've always made, Josh. Choose what's best for your family. Choose what's best for the Dragoons."

oOo

Some men are born stupid, some men achieve stupidity and some have stupidity thrust upon them. Nikolai Koniev was a fine example of all three.

He had served as an aide to Colonel Wolf, a position of high prestige and responsibility. After he was caught siphoning regimental funds into his own pocket, however, he was offered a choice: either volunteer for The Black Widows or face immediate exile from the Inner Sphere. He'd chosen Kerensky's command without hesitation. This amply demonstrated his courage.

His refusal to admit that he'd made a serious error in judgement by embezzling from his heavily armed employers showed his steadfast determination to never admit to a mistake.

His insistence on riding his mistakes down in flames - now _that_ was blatant stupidity.

Openly demonstrated by his conversation with Piet Nichols, who was also quite famous for his total lack of anything even vaguely resembling a sense of tactics. Or of tact.

They'd walked into a tavern for a drink, then proceeded to have a bigoted conversation about the essential humanity of some of the patrons. A _loud_ and easily overheard conversation.

"I'm telling you, they're _genecaste!_"

Koniev waved his fellow's comment to the side. "And I say it's just costumes, trickery and holos." He took another sip of vodka. "Do you think anyone would really be foolish enough to show such things in public?"

Piet's face grew redder. "They told us they weren't all human at the briefing, Nick! Are you just going to sit there and pretend it doesn't matter?"

"Piff. Piet, you take things too seriously. As I said, all illusions and pretense. You disbelieve me? Watch. I demonstrate."

Already several drinks to the wind, that's when Koniev leaned over and gave a sharp tweak to the puffy tail of a tall bunnygirl passing by serving drinks to the crowd.

Much to his surprise, she squealed in pain, and dropping her tray with a loud clatter, removed a rather impressive little pistol from her garter and stuck it in his face.

The situation went rapidly downhill from there.

oOo

"Major Wolf? This is the front desk. You and Captain Kerensky are urgently needed."

Joshua turned in surprise to the terminal in his room, which had lit up spontaneously.

"May I ask what the urgency is?"

"Sir, one of your people has started a bar fight. Once the bar owner realized the identity of the instigator, he assumed you'd wish to be informed, and contacted us immediately."

Joshua rubbed his temples. That old headache was coming back. With a vengeance. "And the perpetrator's name would be...?"

"He has been identified as Mechwarrior Nikolai Koniev of the Black Widow Company, Fire Lance. We have taken the liberty of informing you, Captain Kerensky and Lieutenant Ikeda."

"Just lovely. Do you know if there have been any fatalities?"

"At present, only property damage and minor injuries, Major. However, one of the people Koniev assaulted feels her personal dignity has been impugned, and wishes to meet Koniev in-" There was a pause so brief, Joshua wasn't entirely certain it was there. "- a Circle of Equals, as I believe you would phrase it, sir." A portion of the carpeting lit up, a glowing thread that led from his feet to the door of his suite. "If you and Captain Kerensky would follow the light, we can see you to the bar in half a kilosec, sir."

Joshua heard a low snarl from behind him, and knew that no matter what he might decide, Natasha would try to remove Koniev's brain through his nose. With her bare hands. _First rule of a good officer: Never give an order if you _know_ it won't be obeyed._

"I should just allow the lady to part his hair with a pistol, out of common courtesy. But thank you. I'll be there immediately."

"Understood, sir. We will have a vehicle waiting for you at the front door, and a list of adjudicators will be made available, should you wish to make use of their services."

Joshua didn't even bother looking behind him as he grabbed his uniform jacket and stepped through the door (which had slid open at his approach.) "If we kill Koniev, his pain comes to an _end_, love."

"Point taken." Natasha's voice was as cold as space itself. "And we would not wish to rob the lady of the opportunity to redeem her honor, any more than you enjoyed Jared robbing you of Anton's head."

"Turnabout's a bitch," sighed Wolf.

"How true."

oOo

The bar was crowded, not that Joshua was surprised by this. A good bar fight drew as many spectators as a Solaris arena. And of course, at the center of this 'arena' were two of the Black Widows. Several burly bystanders had pinned both Koniev and Nichols by the arms, despite their increasingly frantic attempts to escape. He caught Natasha's eye and nodded. They were her people, she'd take the initial lead in this.

_"Koniev!"_

The struggling mechwarrior recognized the voice and stiffened. Getting caught in a bar fight was bad. Getting caught in a bar fight by your commanding officer was worse. Getting caught _starting_ a drunken bar fight by Natasha Kerensky _redefined_ the meaning of the phrase 'utterly screwed.'

"What is the meaning of this, Koniev? Are you utterly incapable of following orders?" hissed the Black Widow coldly. "I was under the impression you and Nichols understood that we are _guests_ here. The bar fights in New Delos and now this?"

"Ma'am, I—"

"_Silence!_" Natasha stalked forward, menace in every stride. "I should let them shoot you, but then I would have to pay the costs of your funeral. I may yet do exactly that, if you cannot give me an adequate explanation for your behavior here. And you need not bother to lie. I've already been informed that the owner of this bar has a number of security cameras, and he has generously shared the recordings with me. I found their content to be most interesting."

"Captain, we—"

Her angry glare shifted to Nichols. "I was not addressing you. If you cannot hold your tongue, I can remove it for you."

Piet went silent and braced to attention.

The Widow turned her attention back to Koniev. "Well? Do you have an explanation for your actions here, inciting a bar fight, destroying private property, assaulting a woman and otherwise behaving like a lecherous drunken recruit on his first liberty after basic training?"

"I— No, ma'am. No excuse, Captain."

"_Now_ you begin to show some sense. A pity you did not do so _before_ you began the fight. Now, tell me why you found it necessary to insult our hosts and molest a woman who was simply going about her duties?"

No matter his other faults, Koniev wasn't a coward. He was also a realist. If he had been caught on camera, then lying about the facts would only increase whatever punishment he was about to receive. Honesty, however distasteful, was the best policy at the moment.

"I was under the misapprehension that Mr. Broker was misleading us about the nature of his people, and attempted to show my fellow mechwarrior that the girl was merely wearing an elaborate costume, Captain."

Kerensky raised an eyebrow. "Continue."

"When the young lady passed by, I- err - I grabbed her tail and tweaked it, to show Piet it was just a costume."

"Was she in costume?"

"No, Captain."

Natasha's expression grew even more fierce. "So you deliberately groped the ass of a young woman, who presumably did NOT ask for your attentions beforehand, and she appropriately responded by putting a gun in your face. Would that be an accurate statement of the facts?"

"Yes, Captain."

"And that is how the fight began."

"Yes, Captain."

"Tell me, Koniev. If you had grabbed ME by the ass in such a fashion, how would you expect me to respond?"

Koniev swallowed hard, but refused to flinch. His smirk had begun to resemble a death's rictus. "I'd expect to be dead now, Captain. Either by your hand, or by the Major's."

"Correct. Although if Major Wolf had reached you first, I would be deeply disappointed in him for having gotten in my way. So, is there any reason why I should not turn you over to the young lady and allow her to shoot you here on the spot? Remembering, of course, that doing so is perfectly acceptable here."

"I- I have nothing to say, Captain."

Natasha looked over to Joshua, who took his cue and stepped forward. "I'd shoot you on the spot, Koniev, but the captain is quite right. The young lady is the offended party here, and she has first rights. Miss- ahh... I'm afraid I didn't get your name, miss."

The bunnygirl stepped forward, hissing angrily. "Desiree Sheen. And I suppose you're going to defend this flatlander trash."

"Actually, no."

The girl blinked, taken aback for a second. Her ears flattened down.

"I'd simply like to point out that this particular stain on the fabric of the universe is guilty of multiple counts of embezzlement against my brother, his employer," noted Wolf casually. "That's why he's currently serving under Captain Kerensky's command - he's _supposed_ to be repaying what he's stolen by undertaking high-risk missions."

"I'd call pissing off Sheen a high-risk mission," came a cat-call from the crowd, to the amusement of all but the angry girl and the two offenders.

Joshua nodded genially. "And from the looks of things, I'd agree. But my point is that he still owes a great deal of money to the Wolf's Dragoons. I won't defend his actions, Miss Sheen. But if you kill this fool, my brother will never be repaid. You'd be taking his money from him. This is my first time here, but I understand that the usual methods here are restitution, exile or death. Would I be going against custom to request that, should you kill him, you make restitution to my brother for the financial loss of his investment in Koniev?"

The girl began to audibly grind her teeth. "You'd... have that right." She aimed a lethal glare at Koniev. "Filthy debt-skipper! Embezzler! Stinking flatlander _FEDERALIST!_" She looked back to Wolf. "What would you take in exchange?"

"Aside from making him unable to repay the debt he owes us..." Joshua shrugged. "As I said, we're new here, but I'm beginning to understand your customs. Would requesting an adjudicator be in order?"

"Let's negotiate."

Wolf smiled. _This_ was something he was very familiar with.

"Lieutenant Ikeda."

"Sir!"

"See to it that the idiot twins go nowhere while I speak with the nice young lady." He bowed politely to the girl, and they took several steps to one side for a more private conversation. "Do you have any initial suggestions? Painful ones, I hope. For Koniev, that is."

Desiree's eyes lit up. "Your company - it has insurance? Health insurance, I mean."

Joshua cocked an eyebrow. "It's part of our contract."

"Who pays for it? I mean, if someone gets a stupid, self-inflicted injury, whose pockets pay the healer?"

Wolf's smile grew wider. "If it's a careless, foolish injury, the costs come out of the paycheck of the mercenary in question." He noticed Desiree looking in Koniev's direction, and lowered his voice. "Nothing immediately fatal?"

The girl nodded, then stood up and took several swift strides towards Koniev. When Ikeda moved to intercept, Joshua waved him back with an almost-imperceptible gesture.

"You want to feel my body? Feel THIS!"

Every male in the crowd winced in sympathetic agony as the bunnygirl's foot rocketed into Koniev's crotch, dropping the man without a sound. Only to shudder again as she stepped over the now unconscious man and ground her large toes into his already traumatized manhood. Blood began to visibly stain his groin.

"Well?"

Taking in Desiree's smug and rather sadistic smile, Joshua simply nodded. "Worst case of self-inflicted injury I've ever seen. What do you think, Ikeda?"

"Clearly self-inflicted, sir. Obviously quite drunk as well. Might I suggest that, seeing as most of Koniev's future paychecks will clearly be going to a good healer, Mechwarrior Nichols pay for the damaged property, as well as the work-time lost by Miss Sheen?"

"Excellent suggestion, Lieutenant! See to the appropriate paperwork. Get Miss Sheen's contact information, arrange to have a letter of credit forwarded to her and to the owner of this fine establishment for any incidental damages. And get in touch with the hotel, we really ought to find Koniev a healer before he bleeds out. We wouldn't want to lose him, now that he's generously volunteered to make restitution to these fine people." Joshua turned back to the younger woman. (Or was she? Given what Broker had said about lifespans among the Kyfhon...) "Thank you for not killing him outright, Miss Sheen."

Desiree did a little curtsey. "I hope you can recover your investment, sir. And I thank you for being so understanding."

"Not a problem. We'll see to forwarding his future pay statements to you. I hope that will help in some small way to make up for the insult he's offered you?"

"It does. Thank you." She looked him over curiously. "The datastreams say you're new here, but I think you'll fit in nicely." An eye-flicker towards Natasha. "A pity you're taken, she looks like a fortunate woman."

"I like to think so," grinned Wolf. "I hate to take up any more of your time, so if you'll forgive us?"

She put her palms together in a vaguely Oriental gesture. "Debts are paid, there is nothing between us any longer."

Joshua bowed, then turned to the crowd. "Sorry for the altercation, folks, and I'd like to buy everyone here a round on me."

A rousing cheer split the air and people bellied up to the bar as a medical team arrived to treat Koniev.

oOo

Facing Broker across his desk again felt strange.

"Have you come to a decision, Joshua?"

"I have. I've decided it's a damned shame your _mundito_ is so highly automated. I have some people whom I'd like to put to mucking out sewers at the moment."

Broker laughed. "I've often felt that way myself. The burden of responsibility – and the perils of subordinates who do something stupid on your time, not their own. But that wasn't what I meant."

"I know. But after Koniev's idiodicy, I had to make some sort of a joke, or I'd strangle him with my bare hands."

"Point taken. And your choice?"

"I'd like to ask a question first. There's something I don't understand."

Jared tipped his head to one side. "Please, ask. You are my guest. Given our customs of hospitality, the worst that can happen is that I refuse to answer. And technically, at the moment, I don't even have the right to refuse you an answer."

"How do you DO it?" Joshua grimaced, then began again. "Your society. Your culture. Cooperative anarchy? That's a contradiction in terms! I don't understand. How is it possible? It doesn't make any sense, yet it obviously works. It _shouldn't_ work. What am I _missing_?"

His frustrated tone earned him a chuckle. "No offence, Joshua, but the irony in that question is hilarious from my side of things. It's rather like hearing someone complain that they don't understand the contradiction in how the Clans can have a breed of two meter tall body-builders who look like steroid addicts without their suffering from constant cardiac problems."

Wolf grimaced at the apparent _non-sequitur_. "There's no contradiction in that, it's merely the result of generations... of... oh, crap..."

Broker laughed. "Exactly."

"But how in Kerenski's name can you breed for this?" Joshua waved an arm at the habitat outside the office.

"It's the central irony of Kyfhon culture, Joshua." The CEO nodded towards the historian of the group. "Cranston, are you familiar with the concept of Dunbar's Number?"

Snord scratched at his temple. "Social relationship theory, isn't it? The supposed limit to how many people a single person can hold in their mind as part of their 'tribe' with... ah, damn it, I forget the rest."

"It's also called the Monkeysphere. The technical definition is the number of humans that you, or any other human, can know on a personal basis and can consider to be part of their personal 'tribe' with two or fewer degrees of seperation. A single degree is the usual limit."

"I remember now!" Cranston snapped his fingers. "Social relationships in which an individual knows who each person is, and how each person relates to every other person. More relationships than that, and you start requiring more restrictive rules, laws, and enforced social customs as a crutch to maintain a stable society. Basic military theory. It's supposed to be the reason that a 'company' is usually two hundred or fewer individuals. After that, it's simply not possible to hold all the social interactions in your head - you have to use laws and customs as mental short-hand because you simply don't have enough time to maintain the social 'map' inside your head."

"Precisely. And that's why it's the irony of our culture. You see, it was an accident." Jared laughed long and hard. "If you establish a volunteer colony, and limit the colonists to a gene pool of red-haired men and women, would you be terribly surprised to find red hair becoming a dominant trait? No? I didn't think so.

"You see, joining the Kyfhon _was_ voluntary. As such, we - well, _they_, our ancestors - were able to place _strong_ restrictions on joining up. You didn't want to submit to a polygraph exam or drug-assisted interrogation? Fine. You didn't have to. Have a nice day. And don't let the airlock door hit you in the ass on your way out of the mundito. We were able to filter for true believers in our cause. That's how it started. But it didn't end there.

"That would have lasted a generation. Perhaps two or three. Maybe, if we were exceptionally fortunate, a full century before it destabilized. But unlike previous attempts at similar societies, WE were busy dealing with the long term effects of ionizing radiation, and taking steps against it. Gestating our children in heavily-shielded artificial wombs. Filtering out major genetic problems before they could take hold. Editing our genes to prevent creeping radiation-induced fatal mutations. And in doing so, our geneticists noticed something. Our children were showing odd behavior patterns. When matched against medical databases, it produced quite a panic, because the first and primary match was of a genetic disorder known as Williams-Beuren Syndrome."

"Now that's something I'm not familiar with," stated Cranston. Joshua and Natasha nodded in agreement.

"I'm not surprised. Records show that it's one of the genetic disorders that the Star League helped to wipe out. Cases rarely appear on the Periphery, but little attention is paid to them, for obvious reasons. And one of the most noticible symptons of Williams-Beuren Syndrome is an almost pathological level of hyper-sociability."

"Wait, what? I think I missed something here," Natasha said, confused. "_Hyper_-sociability? How is that again?"

"It's almost a 180 degree inversion of the better known disorder of autism. People with Williams-Beuren Syndrome lack almost all social fear. They'll approach total strangers and try to strike up conversations at random. Instead of retreating into shyness and social inversion, they'll charge in fearlessly. They literally feel little to no social awkwardness."

"Like you," Joshua said thoughtfully.

"Exactly like us. After the initial panic and dismay that we had missed some widespread genetic defect in our children, a massive effort was made to understand WB syndrome, model and map it, understand the biochemical basis of fear, memory, and social interaction. Thousands of different social disorders were studied, and the amount of computer time invested in the problem exceeded the sum total of all computer time in the Human Sphere. And in the desperate attempt to protect our children, we made a breakthrough. A new phenotype of humanity."

"How - how many?" Snord managed to ask.

Jared didn't pretend to mis-understand him. "My particular incept? We can manage as many as four hundred people and all of the resulting social interactions between them, and we're several generations obsolete. And that's just with our bare brains." He raised one arm and cycled his skinsuit through various patterns again. "With my implants, my suit, and as much network attached processing and storage as I can afford, I can devote avatars - computer generated ghosts - whose only purpose is to keep and maintain track of friends, family, employees, social acquaintances, and the like. I have constantly updated profiles on everyone of importance to me, and other ghosts that attempt to predict who may or may not become of importance to me in the future. I can swap those profiles in and out of my head at the speed of thought itself." He cocked his head.

"And as I noted, I'm several generations obsolete. Children today are _much_ better at it than I am."

A cool thrill worked its way down Joshua's back, while a distant, treacherous corner of his mind calmly wondered just how much of Jared was human by any definition even the Clans understood. _In their world, at what point does the human end and the machine begin?_

"And that's the basis of your culture?" he asked.

"Yes. Centuries ago, an author once said 'Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness.' Or, to turn that phrase around, to be perfectly aware of the world around you and the people that inhabit it is to make you better able to predict your immediate personal future — and therefor, that much more capable of avoiding actions that annoy someone to the point that they want to remove you from _their_ personal reality, Joshua."

Over in his chair, Cranston began to smirk. "Or, in other words, you know which toes to _not_ step on. And you can see more clearly the long term results if you choose to go ahead and step on those toes anyway." Snord looked over at Joshua and Natasha. "You know, it makes a bizarre sort of sense." He looked back to Jared. "But if people are still people, - and you've said you are - they can choose to ignore common sense and do something stupid anyway."

"True. Which is why we have what Joshua's here to choose. Restitution, Exile or Death. Kyfhon have more or less agreed that this sort of stupid is a capitol offense, with nature imposing the death penalty. Which makes Koniev a _very_ lucky man. He literally missed getting a bullet to the head. Miss Sheen is quite the shot, according to her public profile."

Cranston had the frown of a man with a truly impressive headache. "So, you're trusting anarchists. I can _almost_ see how that works, but..."

"In 1800 CE, a European author named Alex de Touqueville complained about this in his book, _Democracy in America_. Americans, he said, unlike any other society he'd studied, formed voluntary random social alliances. That's important. _Voluntary random social alliances_. That didn't happen often in Europe. And it began to fade away once feudalism regained its grip on humanity, thanks to the Terran Hegemony and Michael Cameron.

"There are still a few pockets of it here and there, but for the most part, humanity's gone back to 'I trust _only_ my family and blood kinfolk. Strangers equal enemies. It's not up to me to fix the big broken things, that's the King's job!'" Jared shook his head in disgust. "There are exactly TWO large scale high-trust societies left that still practice voluntary random social alliances. The Belters — and the Kyfhon."

"And you're willing to do it because you can see the long picture more clearly," nodded Joshua.

"Well, that, and the fact that we've got a hostile environment _just_ on the other side of that bulkhead. It's stupid to fight a war on more than one front, and utterly moronic to do so when one of those fronts is against Nature itself," noted Jared dryly. "Most people in the Sphere appear to have forgotten that. We're reminded of it every second of our lives, whenever a seal fails somewhere. We try to limit our battles to those we're reasonably certain we can win."

"Sensible," snorted Joshua.

"We like to think so," replied Jared. "And now?"

"In reverse order, then - Death? Honestly, Jared, after what I saw on New Delos and here in this _mundito_, if I tried to duel you, I'd insist that I be augmented, and that you be _unconscious_. I think that's the only way I'd get even odds."

"Smart man," muttered Cranston.

This got him a not-so-gentle elbow in the ribs and a "Hush, you" stage-whispered from Natasha.

"And even if I won the duel, what would it gain me?" Joshua contined. "Would I get Anton back? I believe that if I demanded his return, you'd do your best, but at what cost to me? What cost to the Dragoons? And your death would only make me another enemy. I couldn't win for losing.

"Exile? That's not an option, that's just delaying the problem. Putting it off for another time and place. Giving the problem time, years, to fester and worsen. I don't need that. The _Dragoons_ don't need that.

"No. They won't work. I demand Restitution, Jared. And neutral Arbitration of your debt to me as is laid out in your own binding Social Contract, as Cranston and I read it on the terminal in our hotel room. I _demand_ it. What say you?"

Jared smiled and held out his hand. "I say — Well bargained and done, Joshua Wolf of the Wolf's Dragoons. Well bargained and done."


	6. Chapter 6

Jamie glared across his desk at his younger brother. "There are more holes in this report than a thousand kilos of Swiss cheese. Care to explain why?"

Joshua undid his tunic and set it aside, divesting himself of his rank.

_Okay,_ thought Jamie, _this one isn't going to be easy._ "All right, what went wrong, why did it go wrong, and what are your ideas for fixing it?"

Joshua rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Big brother, you're not going to like any of this. But it has its bright spots. Very bright ones."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We're being played."

Jamie's face tightened slightly. "Explain."

"Being played is bad. Being used to play someone else is worse. But in this case, we're being played to do exactly what Khan Winson wants us to do, big brother. If we're willing to co-operate with Jared and his people, the ones who are going to take the fall will be the Crusader Clans, ComStar, and several of the more aggressive Successor Lords. Additionally, the Dragoons can come out of this smelling like roses, financially flush, and ready to kick ass all over the place."

"Continue."

"The Kyfhon know that no matter which side wins the upcoming war, they're going to eventually have to take on the winner. So they want to be in control of where and when that fight occurs." Joshua paused for a moment and took a sip of whiskey. "They want us - they want _me_ - to tell almost everything to the Clan Council. To the Crusaders in particular. A briefing that will, hopefully, look like a full briefing. All of the Kyfhon technological advances, their improved ships, weapons, habitats, all of it."

"Which would, obviously, cause the Crusaders to froth at the mouth, insisting on an immediate invasion before it's 'too late' to subjugate them." Jamie had a thoughtful look on his face. "What is it that Jared wants us to hold back?"

"One key fact. That the Kyfhon know that we're telling the Grand Council."

"Wonderful," winced Jamie. "They're setting the galaxy's biggest ambush."

"Yes. They want the Crusaders convinced that they can launch a surprise attack on the Kyfhon to cripple them before the Inner Sphere invasion takes place. But the surprise will be on the Crusaders."

"With their mining tools turned weapons, every ship that jumped in would never jump out again," Jaime nodded. "The losses in ships alone would cripple the Clans for decades, while the Trials of Bloodright over every named warrior presumed lost in Kyfhon space would paralyze the Grand Council indefinitely."

"That's assuming the Crusaders can even _reach_ them, big brother. That rift drive of theirs puts them mostly beyond our reach. Beyond anyone's reach, for that matter. Aside from their minor holdings inside of, and on the edge of, the Inner Sphere, that map I saw in Broker's office places the majority of their holdings at least twenty jumps from the nearest Clan-held world." Joshua cocked his head for a moment. "Twenty jumps minimum. I'd guess it's more like twenty-five or thirty. That's not an invasion route, at best it's an attempt at armed colonization."

"Oh, joy. Would you mind giving me at least _one_ of the 'bright spots' you promised?"

Joshua laughed. "Broker kept his word. And it behooves me to mention that MY restitution from Jared has nothing to do with yours. That's part of their culture. You get the joy of choosing restitution, exile or death for him, no matter what I got out of it. The same for Natasha, as well. And when you hear what his first bid to her was, you'll probably drop your teeth."

Jaime raised an eyebrow at that. "That impressive?"

"She got roughly the same bid he wants to make to you, brother dearest. And I'm to offer that bid to you right now. That's the reason for the holes in the report. Jared wanted his bid to come as a surprise."

"All right," sighed Jaime. "Fire away."

"The first offer to Natasha? You've heard the rumors of her genetic background."

"Clan Widowmaker," nodded Jaime. "It's not as if she keeps it a secret. She practically rubs it in every one's faces with the name of her company."

"Well," grinned Joshua, "the Kyfhons have genetics down cold. Their labs could send our Scientist caste out crying into the night. So they offered Natasha exactly that. Unlimited access to _their_ iron wombs, along with their assistance in tracing down all of the Bloodlines of Clan Widowmaker - _if_ she wants it."

Jaime sputtered, some of the whisky in his glass going down the wrong way. "You're serious? _**They're**_ serious? That means—"

"—that she could build her own Clan. Just as we have effectively done, more or less."

Jaime set his glass down carefully, as if his teeth really would fall out without care. "You said 'the same offer.' They're actually offering us access to their birthing chambers and their genetic repositories?"

"You - _we_ - would have to supply our own genetic stock, but their genetic editing facilities would be at our disposal," said Joshua. Even now, the initial shock he'd felt hearing that for the first time on Citadel Station still resonated. "Along with most of their lesser improvements to the human genome. For all intents and purposes, he's offering you, Star Captain Jaime Wolf, the opportunity to create Clan Wolf's Dragoons."

"I -" Jaime shook his head. _No. Set that aside for now. Focus._ "All right. What did _you_ get from Broker?"

"Access to their medical facilities, brother mine." A smirk was playing across Joshua's face. "Along with a hefty line of credit. Their treatments might not be as effective on us, but they're still pretty damned effective. After a routine scan, their medics told me that they could give me an extra twenty years in the cockpit easily. It might even be possible to push that to as much as forty years. You should see what they did to Koniev." The smirk changed to laughter. "I've got the commercial right here." Joshua set a small pocket video player on his brother's desk and hit 'Play.'

Jaime watched, fascinated, as a professionally edited version of Koniev's now infamous bar fight played out on the tiny screen, to dramatic musical accompaniment. The music swelled to a triumphal finish just as the young barmaid elbowed Koniev in the gut, sending him reeling back into the arms of two volunteer bouncers. A velvety smooth announcer's voice took the music's place.

_"Do you really want to risk this sort of person polluting YOUR family line?"_

_"Eden Genomics Repository - Protecting Your Genetic Investment For The Past Six Centuries."_

Joshua was howling with laughter at the end. "Since they believe in debts being paid for, they had to get Koniev to sign a contract before they could use that as an advertisement. Not only did it pay for the ... ahh... _replacement_ of certain damaged body parts, there was enough left over for a 'standard' twenty year rejuvenation treatment. Koniev's not only in perfect health now, he's physically twenty years younger. _And_ he has cash left over. Enough to buy out his debt with them and with the Dragoons."

"Why hasn't he?" frowned Jaime.

"For the first time since his Trial of Position, the idiot's thinking ahead. He's got enough credit left - just _barely_ enough left - to afford either a second rejuvenation treatment or one other major medical procedure. So he sank about ninety percent of that into an open-ended contract with the same center that threw him into a vat and re-grew his bits and pieces. Doesn't matter how badly he's injured now, if we can get him back to a Kyfhon ship with a functioning brain—"

"Too late for that," snarked Jaime.

"Point," noted Joshua. "But as is, short of brain dead on arrival, his contract with Eden Genomics is good for one more all-out treatment. So if the idiot gets himself splattered all over his cockpit, he has a second chance. And if he can _avoid_ getting splattered, twenty years from now they'll reset his age a second time. Which," Joshua took care to point out, "is exactly what they're offering us. In return for my relinquishing any and all claims I may have on both Jared and Anton, we've paid-in-advance access to the same medical care any of Jared's people do."

Jaime let his breath out slowly. "The lives we can save - that alone makes it worth letting Anton live. I hate saying that, but it's true."

"Then you'll like this, big brother. Anton's punishment? They're handing him over to his brother. Alive. With a full file on everyone involved in the rebellion — including ComStar."

Now it was Jaime's turn to shake with cruel laughter. "Janos will tear his brother apart for the rebellion. Lovely."

"It gets better."

"I don't see how that's possible."

"The ships and mechs we mothballed because they were too advanced for the Inner Sphere? We can pull them out now, if we like. Because now we have someone to take the fall for us, brother mine. Executive Outcomes."

"What?"

"That's part of your offer. Supporting _us_ indirectly furthers _their_ objectives. So Jared's offering to be our cut-out. Anything we have that looks suspiciously advanced? We bought it from EO. We say that with a straight face, and EO will nod and happily admit their 'guilt'. End of story. Imagine how infuriated the Inner Sphere intelligence agencies will become," grinned the younger man. "For that matter, spare parts, spare mechs, even spare _jump ships_ are available now. **Those** we'll have to pay for, but they're for sale. To us, and us alone, for now. Nothing more advanced than League-era technology, about the same as what the Great Father took along for the Exodus, but still..."

"We'll have access to a secondary supply source, no longer dependant entirely upon the Clans."

"And all that source really demands from us - aside from paying fair price for what we want - is that we leave them be. Nothing more. They just want to be left alone."

oOo

Hours later, Jaime shook his head in awe at the full report he'd been given. "Soft AI in routine use. Human/AI interfacing accepted as commonplace. Portable full immersion virtual reality. _Augmented_ reality. _Robots_, for Alexander's sake. Is there anything these people _don't_ have?"

"Damned little, brother. And we didn't even have to look. They're unashamed technophiles, and they're pushing the limits of possibility so hard, they squeak. They make the cutting edge of the Star League look like a bunch of paranoid Luddites."

Jaime flipped through the pages. "There's one thing I can't seem to find. Did you learn anything about these 'Winterborn' people the rumors speak of?"

The grimace flicked across Joshua's face so quickly, Jaime almost missed it. "I did. And I'm not committing anything to paper until it's safe."

This earned him a sharp glance. "Why?"

"The interface with their skinsuits? Their use of AI avatars? The ability to use an 'exo-cortex'? They took that to the logical limit."

This was more than caution from his brother. This was uncertainty. "And that limit is?"

"During the glory days of the League, medical science was able to replace everything else. Artificial hearts, lungs, kidneys, every organ you can think of but one."

"You've _got_ to be mistaken!"

Joshua shook his head. "Most of them don't bother - but a few do. I was told it was an offshoot of their skinsuits and the use of exo-cortexes. The final step beyond. Cybernetic implants capable of holding the entirety of a human mind. Cyberbrains."

"That's... You could..." Jaime trailed off, the implications making his mind reel.

"Do you see why I didn't write it down?"

"Yes," breathed his brother. "Alexander's ghost - that could begin a war all by itself. It _will_ begin a war, eventually."

"That's why they're here." Joshua waved at the report. "Turn back to the finance section. See the redacted portions?"

Jaime hmm'ed quietly. "They're moving in money to the Periphery nations. They're buying... art?"

"They're buying nothing that they actually need," replied Joshua. "It's just an easy excuse to get money into the hands of the star nations most resistant to being reintegrated into a new Star League. Art is an easy way to launder money, if you don't mind taking a financial loss along the way. That's why they're backing all their purchases with precious metals. Notice what the Outworlds Alliance is buying with all that cold cash?"

"_Vulcan-3N_ aerospace fighters." Jaime thought about that for a moment. "Fits with their TO&E, fits with their defense doctrine, inexpensive, durable, reliable, low-tech, simple to build and maintain while still having enough firepower to give the SL Expeditionary Forces fits when they started occupying the Rim Republic worlds. There are still some floating around the Hanseatic League, if I recall correctly." He grimaced. "I see where you're going with this."

"Yes. It won't matter what the Clans think of the Kyfhon. It won't matter what the Spheroids think. Jared's people have made themselves welcome in the Periphery by ridding it of most of it's pirates, and now they're building up the Periphery states, aiding worlds that already have a strong tradition of independence and resistance to central authority. Just as the Kyfhon do. If and when push comes to shove over their advanced technologies, who do you think the Periphery will side with? The Inner Sphere authoritarians who've oppressed them in the past? The Clan invaders who will tell them that they're going to rejoin the new Star League, or be shot? Or the Kyfhon, who have _shown_ that they're willing to live and let live? Kyfhon who've donated money, assets and blood to help people they consider to be decent neighbors."

Jamie flipped through more pages. "Lots of names redacted here - at their request, I assume?"

"Uh-huh. Production of the _Vulcan_ has restarted, with the heirs of Roe Weapons Systems - those who could be found, anyway - granting an open source licence to the design. Once the Outworlds Alliance has enough to equip all of their second-line forces, they're going to start selling additional production to any Periphery worlds that are interested. And they _are_ interested. The Illyrian Palatinate and the Lothian League have already placed orders in advance, and the Canopians are considering building their own factory to produce them, with Majesty Metals and Manufacturing offering to lead the way. Guess where the money's coming from?"

"No guess. I can't see the blacked out names, but I'm willing to bet that if I had a business directory from Citadel Station, I'd find every one of them prominently displayed."

Joshua reached into a pocket and withdrew a single C-bill, miming agony as he made a stage-production of handing it over to his brother.

"Smart alec," Jamie muttered fondly.

"And loving it."

Jamie continued flipping back and forth through the not-so-full report his brother had given him. "They're making allies — no, they're making friends. Friends with a common interest. Friends who'll side with them, should push come to shove."

"And you know that it will, Jaime."

The older brother sighed. "Know it, yes. Like it? No. Our business may be war, but that doesn't mean I have to enjoy the fact that business will be booming." He held up the report. "This? This isn't what the Clans practice. The Kyfhon — they're preparing for their own version of a Trial of Annihilation."

"Which leads you and I right back to the original question. Do we want to get in their way? If the Crusaders have their way, this will turn into Reunification War version 2.0 - the Kyfhon won't fire the first shot, but they'll make certain that they fire the last."

Jaime was silent for a long moment. Then he flipped the report shut. "Shred and burn any paper copies. Encrypt the digital ones. One-time pads. Once that's been done..."

"Yes?"

"Call Broker. Tell him I'd like to invite him to a private meeting. Just he and I... and an Arbitrator."

Joshua flashed a wide grin.

"Bargain well, big brother. Bargain well."

oOo

Tiepolo looked forward to his next scheduled appointment. Bigelow's... 'accession' to the position of temporary head of ROM had been interesting to watch, in much the same way watching a fatal aircar crash would be interesting. He'd made a number of small wagers with himself as to how soon the man would fold under the pressure. Amusingly, he'd lost a few of them, and it appeared he'd lose several more.

He nodded as the man walked into his office. It wasn't the confident stride of a man sure of himself and his position, but it wasn't the cringing creep of someone living in fear, either. Interesting.

"Sir, I have the latest report concerning Kristofur. His tutors had some initial problems communicating abstract concepts without the use of words, but they recently had a breakthrough, and with sufficient encouragement, Vesar has gained rudimentary fluency in ASL. He understands some four hundred 'words', and is learning rapidly. If he continues to learn at this rate, we'll be able to manage a full debriefing within four weeks."

"Excellent," nodded Julian. "Sit, sit. If you stand like that, you'll make my old bones ache just looking at you." He waved to the guest's chair sitting before his desk. "Continue, please. How was the breakthrough made?"

To Tiepolo's amusement, the younger bureaucrat flushed slightly while taking his seat. "That - ahh... that would be my fault. Sir."

"Fault, Bigelow? I'd hardly call such a success a 'fault'. What happened and how?"

Bigelow took a deep breath and plunged in to his report. "The team was having difficulty with communicating abstract concepts such as time and space, sir. Anything that even came close to using written or verbal symbolism simply didn't work due to the chemicals paralyzing the brain centers involved. Then one morning, I was having breakfast, and I saw it."

"It, Bigelow?"

"I was having soft-boiled eggs for breakfast, Primus. I like to make them myself, and I use an egg-timer. A _sand_ timer, sir. A three minute version of a traditional hourglass."

It wasn't often Julian was caught by surprise, and very seldom were the surprises pleasant. This time was a happy exception.

"An hourglass - the very concept of time itself. A non-written, non-verbal symbol of time, a symbol as old as history. Insightful! Well done, Bigelow!"

"Thank you, sir. It hit me in much the same way. I immediately rushed back to Interrogation, calling his team from my car, and had them assemble a pictorial tutorial, along with hand-drawn sketches of - well, hands! - held in ASL positions. Despite his apparent treachery, Kristofur's file shows him to be mentally quick and quite alert. He picked up on what we were trying to do, made the associations we hoped for, and began to actively participate, _trying_ to learn sign language."

Tiepolo's expression hardened. "Does he understand the _reason_ for such urgency?"

Bigelow visibly steeled himself and nodded. "Yes, sir. I took it upon myself, on my own recognizance, to show him a photo line up of a number of traitors to ComStar, recent traitors, including a few that Kristofur himself had helped apprehend. Once he recognized them, all I had to do was point from them, to him. From his reaction, I believe he understands how he is currently regarded by ROM."

Julian laughed at that. It was a bone-chilling sound. "As Doctor Samuel Johnson once said, '_Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.'_ Given the situation, I do believe you've motivated Kristofur quite well."

"Thank you, sir. I live to serve ComStar."

"Indeed. In regards to that, Bigelow, I have a question for you. Once this unpleasant affair is over, do you still wish to retire to a B class station?"

"Sir?"

"While perusing your file, Bigelow, I've noticed that you're exceptionally skilled in forensic accounting. Indulge an old man's curiosity. Why did you request a transfer to the executive branch of ROM?"

The younger man dipped his head. "I thought... I thought I would hold a minor office long enough to—"

"To check off all of the 'I've been there, I've done that' boxes on the early retirement application form?" Julian chuckled at the guilt written across Bigelow's face. "As Primus, I've seen that more times than I can remember. I've been tempted to _do_ it more times than I can remember. It's not a crime to lack epic ambitions, Bigelow. Ofttimes, it's a sign of a man who understands and acknowledges his limitations, and seeks to work within them."

"I— I am grateful, sir?"

"Hold on to that feeling, Bigelow. I have an additional reason for you to do so." He peered over the top of his glasses at the temporary head of ROM, sliding a file across his desk. "This copy is for you. Markus Wren, the head of the forensic accounting section of ComStar's Internal Affairs department, has recently endured a tragedy. His wife of some thirty years has passed away from terminal cancer. I know the man well. He will not long survive his wife. He does not wish to. His assistant, who would normally take charge of that section, is a highly capable aide but _not_ a skilled administrator. I need someone who IS skilled to take charge of that section, Bigelow. Go home for the day. Rest. Read this file. Then tell me honestly if you are the man I need."

Bigelow picked up the manila folder, his hand trembling slightly. "Thank you, sir. Whatever my answer is, it will be the honest answer, to the best of my knowledge."

"Excellent. Hold to that. Know your limits, and seek to surmount them with time, effort and courage." Tiepolo gazed levelly at the bureaucrat. "And see to it that Vesar surmounts _his_ current limitations."

Bigelow's expression darkened. "We will know what he knows, Primus. My oath upon it."

"Then proceed, Bigelow. And no matter what your choice, always remember. You are ComStar. Take justified pride in that. Dismissed."

A moment after Bigelow left the room, Matten entered from a side door.

"Elegantly done, my Primus."

Julian smirked. "I have salvaged a useful member of ComStar, and motivated him to apply his every effort to Vesar's interrogation. The carrot often works better than the stick, old friend."

"Indeed," nodded Matten. "And along those lines, I would respectfully request a 'carrot' of my own, Primus."

"Oh?" asked Tiepolo.

"Once Kristofur is communicative enough, I would ask permission to sit in on his further interrogations myself. His arrogance during this entire affair... it tasks me."

"Ah, Matten, my old friend. I council patience once again. You will have your chance. That, I promise you."

"I'll hold you to that, Julian." Matten coughed politely, and directed a pointed gaze towards a certain hidden drawer in the Primus' desk. Julian rolled his eyes.

"I'd swear you were a closet dipsomaniac, Matten, if ROM hadn't already proven otherwise." He opened the drawer and pulled out the expected bottle of single malt scotch and two glasses. "Is there a distillery anywhere in Scotland that doesn't know you by name?"

"If there is, their product isn't worth my time. And now that Bigelow's given you his good news, I have some of my own."

"Oh? Pray tell."

"As of three hours ago, the research team working on the heterodyne lasers have succeeded. The last bugs were solved, and the first mech-scaled large 'het-laser', weighing no more than five tons, has passed its stress test. ComStar can begin producing the first model within six months. Three, if we insist on making it a crash project."

Tiepolo looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. "At this time, I see no reason to risk the success your people have given us by insisting that they deliver an army's worth of weapons in ninety days. Slow and steady wins this particular race, old friend."

"I had thought as much, but felt the final decision was yours to make, sir."

"And the secondary project?"

"Even better news there, Primus. Scaling the heterodyne lasers _up_ to naval scale proved ridiculously easy. The heat problems were significant, but surmountable. Production will take longer, though. Several years, I'm afraid. But when the day arrives, the ComGuard will have the most powerful WarShips with the heaviest weapons in all the galaxy."

"And in the other direction?" queried Tiepolo.

Matten sighed. "I regret to report that _reducing_ the size of the weapons is still beyond us, and may remain so for any number of years. Much of what allowed these Periphery upstarts to miniaturize their weapons lies in the materials they use. Unless we can find their source for such rare metals and seize control of it, the sheer cost of the raw elements will prevent us from ever making such weapons save as toys and curios for the amusement of our research engineers. Simply put, infantry-sized het-lasers are indefinitely beyond our reach."

"Your recommendation?"

"The astrographics division is bending every effort into their research, Primus, as is the Explorer Corp and every ROM agent that can be spared. But until the secret of where or how these people are obtaining their exotic materials, I would suggest that further research be shifted towards more fully understanding the theories behind the captured weapons. Anything further would be a waste of resources."

"I agree," nodded Julian. "But make certain that the researchers involved understand that the reduction is not an elimination, nor is it an excuse to indulge in pointless tinkering. It will not be a licence to throw assets into a money pit because they are easily amused."

Matten's patrician features twisted with irritation for a moment, then smoothed.

"Is there something you're not telling me, old friend?"

"Nothing of import," Matten groused softly. "Merely engineers and scientists who think that ComStar is a blank check created solely for the purpose of indulging their expensive flights of theoretical fancy, and the opportunity to play with large, costly toys."

The Primus pursed his lips, amused with his friend's frustration. "I understand. Their heads may be in the clouds of lofty scientific research, but their fingers still manage to find their way deep into our bank accounts. For men and women who proclaim so loudly that they have no interest in such sordid and worldly affairs as high finance, they seem to show a great deal of understanding of the subject whenever it comes time to renew their annual funding." A wicked smile crossed his face. "Remind them that Terra is not the _only_ world where we have available research facilities. And some of those other worlds may lack certain... creature comforts... that they've grown accustomed to. I suspect their complaints about funding will become far less tiresome."

Matten smiled knowingly. "Then with your permission, Julian?"

"So let it be written, so let it be done."

oOo

Janos Marik sat in his throne room in the center of Atreus City. His face was a carefully held mask as he awaited his guests. Visible emotions had no place here, not now.

He glanced over at his brother, standing in chains with several trusted guards keeping a close watch over him. Normally, Anton would be in the most heavily guarded cell on the planet, surrounded by regiments with orders to shoot on sight in the event of an escape attempt.

But not today.

His major-domo appeared at his elbow. "Sire, your... _guests_ are here."

Janos suppressed a thin smile. William Bayler had served him for years, and the dry emphasis the man could place on a single word still amazed and amused him. The man was the social equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction, able to cut down entire rooms of useless courtiers with the twitch of an eyebrow. A gift valuable beyond measure for the encounter that was about to take place.

"Show them in."

oOo

Anton ground his teeth in silent fury. He'd been held incommunicado since he had been transferred into the custody of his brother's forces. But however harsh his treatment at the hands of his guards, it was far better than the absent-minded contempt of his former captors. The Kyfhon had treated him not as a threat, but as an _inconvenience_.

There had been no guards - for there was no way off the immense habitat without paying for the transportation. Which he could not. When he refused to do the labor that had been assigned to him, the 'hotel' (never a prison, no) simply refused to supply him anything other than basic nutrients and life support. He'd been informed that if he wished to take out a loan against his brother's good fiscal name, he was welcome to apply for one.

He'd rather have starved.

Each day he'd been presenting with the slowly mounting costs of his _non-_incarceration, billed in grams of gold, silver and copper.

He'd reluctantly, grudgingly, admitted to himself (and only to himself!) that, for the service, the costs were quite reasonable. And that fact irked him all the more. He was a _MARIK_, damn their eyes. They could have at least demanded a _proper_ ransom, as befitting one of his station in life.

But for all his pride, he might as well have been a random drifter, expected to earn his room and board like a common laborer.

Then the word had come. His brother, his enemy, was paying his ransom (Anton refused to call it a bill), and he was being returned to Atreus. The price of a one-way trip directly to Atreus City was the last item on the final bill presented to Anton, and several days later he was in the hands of a regiment loyal to Janos, aboard a dropship waiting for him in the Landfall system, just inside the League's borders. A command circuit had whisked him to the cell awaiting him in Atreus City.

Yet the execution he'd expected had never taken place. Had Janos been in _his_ hands, his older brother would have died quickly. Why, then, was he still alive? What was Janos doing, and _why_? Why take the risk?

Now he stood here in the throne room, shackled like a common criminal, awaiting the presentation of some unnamed guests. Was he to be paraded before Janos' enemies as an example? A trophy of a victory Janos had not earned?

Death would have been preferable.

oOo

Demi-Precentor John Hundley was in a minor panic. Precentor Atreus Aliz had left, and left him in charge - an emergency meeting on Terra. One that Hundley hadn't been briefed on. That in and of itself was bad. He was the Precentor's second, he should have been informed. He'd be kept out of the loop only if this were black op - and on a level that a ComStar Demi-Precentor wasn't cleared for. He was cleared for the entire world of Atreus, including all the dirty little ops ComStar had running to contain Janos Marik and the Free Worlds League.

Ipso facto, whatever was going on was interplanetary at the least. And he was _not_ cleared for that level of operations.

The Precentor Atreus had been... _requested_ ... (more like a polite demand) to attend the Captain General at a private conference concerning the recent civil war. The invitation stated that ComStar was directly affected by recent events, and that certain information needed to be given to ComStar immediately.

And as Precentor Atreus was off planet at the bidding of ComStar, it therefore fell to Hundley to present himself to the Captain General as the representative of ComStar.

Hundley rushed to get into his ceremonial robes, hissing at the acolytes dressing him. He had to look perfect - not for himself but for the honor and dignity of ComStar.

And the damned things were heavy and hot. And damned uncomfortable. When was the last time he'd worn them? Blast!

Then it was an undignified rush to the limousine, so he could pass through security (both sides - a lengthy process) and arrive at the throne room in time to make a slow, dignified entrance before Captain-General Marik.

oOo

"Greetings, Demi-Precentor Hundley." Janos' smile was predatory, with the casual malice a cat might have while playing with a crippled mouse. "My... apologies for summoning you so unexpectedly, but as you may have heard, the recent civil war has come to an unexpencted end thanks to the interference of a previously unknown participant. You have, I hope, been briefed on the Periphery organization going by the name of 'Executive Outcomes'?"

Hundley surpressed the urge to wince. All ComStar stations had been alerted to maintain a constant watch on offices of EO if one had been establised on their planet, along with orders to infiltrate them at almost all costs. The only attempts that had been banned outright were those that might have compromised ComStar's long-term mission. And NONE of them worked! The damned barbarians were tighter than a vacuum sealed can, one that hissed at you if you tried to open it.

Hissed at you with gunfire. ROM had already lost three operatives on New St. Andrews in their attempts to infiltrate the EO office there. Adding insult to injury, their bodies had been returned to ComStar, at EO's expense. ROM agents in the Hanseatic League were suffering similar problems, according to a recent intelligence briefing. Attempting to inflitrate or kidnap personnel from an EO office tended to end in gunfire and bloodshed, and severe embarrassment for ROM.

"I have, Captain General. Are they what this meeting is about?"

"An excellent question, Precentor." At the wave of a hand, an aide placed a small table in front of Janos, while a second set several data storage units on it. "As you may possibly have heard, my brother attempted to force the Wolfs Dragoons to bow to him by threatening their dependants. This failed rather miserably, thanks to the interference of Executive Outcomes. Their people assaulted New Delos, shut down the capital city, attacked my brother's palace, captured him alive, _and_ saved the families of the Dragoons. No friendly casualties. And they did all of this in less than four hours. Most impressive for a mere security agency, wouldn't you say?"

"They sound... impressive for a private security firm," Hundley offered carefully. He didn't want to give any further information away.

"At the very least, highly skilled, Precentor. Also quite generous as well as extremely vengeful." He motioned again, and to Hundley's shock, a pair of guards formerly hidden in the deep shadows of the throne room lead forward a cuffed and shackeled Anton Marik. Janos' brother snarled, and began to speak, only to come to an abrupt halt when one of the guards thumbed him painfully in the ribs. "As you can see, they've returned my brother to me, an act that endears me to them. But I have a problem, Precentor, a problem only ComStar can solve."

"As always, ComStar is at your service, Captain-General," Hundley stated cautiously.

Janos pointed at the small table in front of him. "Along with my brother, Executive Outcomes sent a great deal of information. Some of it captured from my brother's forces when they attacked New Delos. The rest they claim to have found by chance during their regular course of operations. And that information troubles me, Precentory. It _libels_ ComStar's good reputation. That disturbs me. ComStar controls all interstellar communications. It's reputation is important. These smears upon ComStar's good character cannot stand." The Captain-General's smile was thin. "So I have ordered SAFE to officially supress this information, and I am giving copies to you, for you to forward directly to ComStar, that you might quash these scurrilous rumors before they begin."

"I... what rumors, Captain-General?"

"Rumors that ComStar is experimenting with drugs to pacify entire populations, that ComStar intends to recreate the Terran Hegemony with itself as the ruling party, that it was responsible for that recent nasty pirate affair between the Lyrans and the Combine, and of course, the deeply disturbing slander that ComStar is conducting human experimentation to produce super-soldiers for the ComGuard. That the Primus intends to re-create the Star League, with himself as the First Lord. And of course, the usual age-old accusations that ComStar reads the mail we send that they might profit from private communications." Janos gave the Precentor a tired, worldly grin. "Such base rumors about the noble couriers who carry our mail never seem to die. Human nature, I suppose."

Hundley shuddered, feeling as thought his guts had been bathed in liquid helium. In Blake's Name, how had they discovered so MUCH? And the information was already in the hands of Janos Marik and SAFE! This was a disaster!

"So," continued Janos, "I present you with copies of everything I received from Executive Outcomes - aside from my brother, that is." The Captain-General chuckled in a comradely way. "I fear he's rather difficult to fit through a copying machine. I do hope you'll forgive me for that omission. I realize this was done on horribly short notice, and I deeply sympathize with you over the problems I've just dumped into your lap. Hopefully, Precentor Aliz will return shortly and take this heavy burden from your shoulders."

The aide stepped forward once more, placing the data storage units into a small lockbox. Sealing it, he then handed it, along with a keycard, to Hundley, who almost dropped it in his state of shock.

"And one last thing, Precentor. Executive Outcomes claims to have forwarded copies of this data to the Davions, the Steiners, the Kuritans, and the Liao."

Janos paused, and shook his head.

"Sadly, Precentor, I can spare no more time for this meeting. Would that I could, but I must deal with the turbulent problems that my brother's rebellion has stirred up. And deal with my brother as well. I mean you no personal offense, but I am only one man, and time waits for no one. I bid you good day."

A guard appeared at Hundley's elbow, carefully guiding the stunned man from the throne room and back to his waiting limousine.

oOo

In the now silent throne room, Janos turned to his brother.

"You sought to usurp me, murder my children, slay innocent hostages and rule from a blood-soaked throne, brother. To sacrifice everything the Marik family has built to your petty, personal ambition. Tell me, why I should let you live."

"You shouldn't," Anton ground out, the words sounding like gravel going through a crusher. "Were I in your position, I would have you killed immediately."

"Then why haven't I?" Janos asked him.

"Play no games with me, brother! I have no idea why you've kept me alive. But I swear, as long as I live, I will seek to kill you."

"Perhaps, and perhaps not, brother." Janos then nodded to Anton's guards. "Take him back to his cell. Make certain he has access to a pad, and the contents of the files. I want him to understand exactly the future his _friend_ Kristofur had intended for him." He looked at his brother as the guards took him by the shoulders. "You may find yourself enlightened, Anton. If so, the guards will be certain to let me know."

The lights of the throne room faded as Janos left for his personal quarters. He had much to do, and little time to do it in.

The first pebble had fallen down the mountainside, and he had to prepare the Free Worlds League for the coming avalanche.

oOo

Jamie grinned across his desk at the Kyfhon. This was going to be _fun._

"And your first bid is what, exactly, Jared?"

The older man laughed. "Oh, we're going to have fun here, aren't we? I'll wager Joshua has already told you we're willing to sell some things to the Dragoons. As my first bid, let me show you a little of what's for sale." He brought a small pad from his pocket and touched the surface. The hologram that formed over it had surprised Jamie's guards - even the Clans had trouble building hologram projectors small. And at that, Jamie suspected the pad was a concession to himself. A prop, a minor sop for Dragoon pride. He had the sneaky feeling that if they were in Jared's office instead of his own, Broker wouldn't even have bothered with the projector.

"First, Jamie, I'm sure you're familiar with the Diamond Shark custom of allowing someone who's failed their first Trial of Position to try again for a lesser rank - from Mechwarrior to Infantry, and so on?"

"I am. A few of my people are former Diamond Sharks."

"Excellent! There must be plenty of people back in Clan space who just _barely_ failed their Trial, no? People who'd still make excellent Mechwarriors by Inner Sphere standards, if only you had the resources to refresh their training and put them into decent combat mechs?"

Jamie bit his tongue, holding back the urge to laugh. Broker was about as transparent as a piece of window glass, and moreover, they both knew it was an act. "There are thousands who'd jump at the chance, should the Khans allow it," he admitted with a bit of over-the-top mock reluctance.

"Wonderful! Then what you'd need are those resources I just mentioned. Mechs, a lot of them. But nothing that the Inner Sphere couldn't supply, as the Clans wouldn't want _their_ technology falling into Spheroid hands." A 'mech shimmered into view above the projector. "The CRK-5000-0 _Crockett_ training mech. Eighty-five tons, jump capable, the original SLDF training mech for pilots who'd be handling jump-capable assault mechs. Nothing in it that isn't current state of the Inner Sphere art, aside from our copies of the freezer sinks. And you're getting them at cost, not list price. We'll even co-sign any loans you might need."

"Anyone ever tell you that you sound like a used ground-car salesman?" Jamie smirked.

"All the time," Jared chuckled back. "But while assault mechs are nice, you need more than that. The CLN-4 _Chameleon_. Fifty tons. Not a bad machine for people who want to get started in light and medium mechs, as well as fast scouting mechs. But prone to overheating _badly_ thanks to a mere ten single heatsinks."

"Which your people are going to replace with doubles." Jamie couldn't hold back the snicker at Broker's nod. "People are going to hate us."

"That they will," Broker noted agreeably. "And now we leave sanity and move into the realm of 'what the hell were they drinking?', Colonel. Ready? You're going to need to look closely at the following design." His fingers twitched slightly, and the image changed.

Jamie frowned at it. Short. Squat. In a way, the profile resembled a (very) large Elemental suit. "What _is_ that?"

"That, Colonel, is the ARB-001 _Arbiter._ We held a Kyfhon-wide contest to name it. Seriously." The image began to slowly rotate. "Understand that while we _left_ the Inner Sphere, we didn't remain ignorant of what went on inside of it. We had informants among the Belters, and they tried to keep us vaguely up to date, particularly in the areas of science and technology. The _Arbiter_ is a 35-ton mech with a very _special_ punch." The image zoomed in on the right arm. "That's a PPC, built out of parts that are recognizable 'forgeries' of parts available in the IS. But with a bit of a twist. One of our informants let us know about the SLDF's attempts to make a snub-nosed PPC, and a PPC capacitor. What you're seeing there is what _can_ be done using IS parts - if you're crazy enough to try. No 'lostech' required."

Jamie stared at the holo, wondering. "How the _hell_ did you manage this?"

"We're an odd people," Jared replied. "Highly individualistic, one might even say insanely so, yet highly networked. We're all _connected_, Jamie. And all of us, each and every one of us, have access to an amount of computer power that exceeds the sum total of an IS throneworld. We don't always use all of it. Something unused is wasted - and why waste something when you can sell it and make a profit?"

"You - had everyone working on this, as a group project?"

"We call it cloud computing. We outlined the problem - the need for a machine that would give the IS grief, but using _only_ parts and technology currently available inside the IS. Then we literally posted a catalog of what was available inside the Sphere, and let everyone have a group go at the problem, as a contest with prizes for the best design. You're looking at about three gigaseconds of collective design effort there."

Jamie eyed the image again. "Damn. A thirty-five ton mech that packs as much punch as a gauss cannon? And it still has decent armor and speed? This will have war colleges across the Sphere ripping up their text-books about light mechs."

Jared indicated the right arm again. "And we weren't ashamed at ripping people off. The _Vindicator_ has what amounts to an extra heatsink thanks to the radiators and passive water pump built into the Ceres Arms _Smasher_ series PPC. So we pinched their idea. The fins on the arm of the _Arbiter_ will dissipate about the same amount of heat as a single standard heatsink. It isn't much—"

"- but every bit helps. I like it."

"Then you'll like what come next. It's switchable."

"Eh?"

"We couldn't give you the firepower of a Clan ER PPC using only IS components, but what we _could_ do was enable the pilot to switch from snub-nose mode to regular mode at the press of a button. So you've got the long range of a regular PPC, and the close-in firepower of a snub PPC. So it can fight at any range. Include the capacitor to bump up the amount of damage it can deal, and it becomes a trap for anyone thinking it's an easy fight."

The view switched to the cockpit. "We also pinched the idea of the simplified cockpit from the _Crockett_. It's larger, simpler, easier to learn, and so roomy, it can even fit an Elemental who might want to train - or one who was washed out of his Trial of Position."

Jamie shook his head. "It's too easy. There has to be a catch."

"Oh, there is. No matter how hard we tried, when the capacitor is charging - or is fully charged - it stands out on infra-red like a beacon. Even more so than the usual mech thermal image. We simply couldn't insulate it enough using IS technology without cooking either the PPC or the pilot. Sorry about that."

"Why in Alexander's name are you apologizing? You've got a small miracle here, and if I ever get my hands on any, I'll be fighting off the thieves and spies with a stick!"

"So you don't want any of them?" Broker chuckled.

"I'll take as many as I can bully out of you and scream for more, Jared."

"I thought that might be your answer. Ready for the cherry on top of things, Colonel?"

"Surprise me, Jared."

"Every bit of information we have on the Clans tells us that you have a certain number of Elemental phenotypes who don't pass their Trial of Position. I'm willing to bet most of them would cheerfully kill to get on to the field of battle."

"I'd have to say there's something to that statement," Jamie said cautiously.

The image changed again. "Behold the GRN-3 _Guardian._ A 15-ton battlemech that's actually worthy of the name."

Jamie's jaw wanted to drop, and only a lifetime of self-control kept it into place. "Surely you're joking!"

Broker shook his head. "We couldn't just give or sell Elemental battlesuits, that would have had everyone in a panic. So, just like the _Arbiter_, we took the catalog of what was available in the IS, and set up a cloud project to see what could be done. What you see there is based on the chassis of a SecurityMech, and _very_ carefully edited to give it actual firepower." He looked at Jamie closely. "You tell me what we left out." He expanded the holo until it was about a meter tall. "Take your time."

After five minutes, Wolf frowned. At ten minutes, he shook his head. "I know I'm missing something, but I can't quite spot it."

"Here's a clue, Jamie - think of the _Spider_."

Jamie's brows shot up and he took a closer look at the holo. "No ejection seat, no pod. Nothing. The cockpit's almost non-existent. If you want out—"

"You'll have to pop the hatch and crawl out. But for a mech that small, it's worth it. In return, the weight savings allow it to carry a medium laser, two machine guns with a ton of ammo, an SRM-2 with a ton of ammo, and a semi-portable infantry PPC on a mount to give it means of suppressing infantry without wasting ammo."

"I can already see the flaw - with that much ammo at hand, penetrate the torso armor and it goes up like a bomb. A _large_ bomb."

"The same can be said of an Elemental suit. And how many has-beens who never-were do the Clans have for you to poach, eh?"

"Enough. But how many of these... _Guardians_ do you have? More importantly, how many can _I_ have?"

"Isn't that what we're here to discuss?"

"I hate you with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns," Wolf dead-panned dryly. "So let's get to the shouting and screaming part."

oOo

Hanse Davion was feeling left out of the loop.

The majority of the human race had felt that way for thousands of years. But they weren't the leader of a vast, interstellar nation. A _very_ terse call to Count Truston resulted in Nicholas dispatching his trusted deputy to the palace with all relevant files. (And if they _weren't_ relevant, Truston would quickly find himself to be the _former_ Count Truston.)

"Sire? Lord Allard is here."

"Send him in."

Quintus Allard nodded to his prince as he entered the massive office. "My lord. I have the reports as requested. The contents are..." He paused, his attitude visibly shifting towards the informal. "Do you want the large migraine or the small?"

"I wasn't aware that they even _came_ in the small size any more," quipped Hanse.

"I'm afraid, Sire, that not only does this situation come in the large, economy size migraine, we received several smaller ones free of charge," Quintus grimaced. "Including several that would inevitably herald the eruption of Mount Davion."

Hearing the annoying nickname his closest friends had given to his thankfully rare displays of total loss of self-control to anger sobered Hanse quickly. "That bad?"

"Worse." Quintus took the chair in front of his prince's desk. "As bluntly as possible - in a positively breath-taking display of _hubris_, Chancellor Maximilian implemented a plan to replace you with a Manchurian candidate, my lord."

The glass in Hanse's fist cracked. "I hope you're joking, Quintus."

"No, sir." Allard took a deep breath and continued. "MIIO has confirmed that, with technological support provided by ComStar and the aid of several traitors, including one of your personal physicians, Maskirovka was implementing a plan to substitute a mind-wiped body-double of you during one of your trips off planet. The recent mystery attack on the medical research station on Sanilac was a cover to abduct several of the experts needed to attempt such a... feat."

"And how," questioned Hanse very softly, "did they intend to get away with this? The first attempt for such a fraud to betray the Suns would be the last."

"He wouldn't," replied Quintus. "That's the sickening part of the plan. Their intention was for the double to _believe_ he was you. He was to have his mind completely erased, to be replaced with something as close as humanly possible to _you_. A Hanse who was just as loyal to the Suns as you are - but convinced that what's good for the Confederation is what's good for the Suns. He would honestly believe that subordinating the Federated Suns to the Cappellan Confederation would be the best possible outcome for the Suns. And they intended to make certain he was every bit as cunning as you are, sir. Or as cunning as they could make him, at least. They wanted him to be every bit as successful as you could be - as his successes would serve _them._"

"And you found all of this in the files these mercenaries provided," whispered the Prince of the Federated Suns.

"Yes, sir. At the moment, every accusation they've made is being checked and double-checked by MIIO as well as DMI, but to date, every item checked has either been confirmed as fact, or set to one side for lack of supporting evidence. Not one has proven false." Allard grimaced. "And so far, we're not even a quarter of the way through the file."

"And what do we know about this - 'Executive Outcomes'?"

This extracted a tired laugh from Quintus. "That they apparently hate ComStar with a passion, sir. They've dumped more of ComStar's dirty laundry in one pass than every intelligence agency in the Inner Sphere could have gathered in three centuries!" He tapped the pad on the desk. "It reads like a melodrama. A _silly_ melodrama. Trying to use drugs to undermine the willpower of the noble Houses? Building an army on Terra in secret? Funding pirates? Operation _Holy Shroud_? I'd honestly believe that the authors of this file were the ones using drugs — if it weren't for the fact that we've been able to confirm every accusation that we've had the time and manpower to check."

He tapped the pad again, and the screen shimmered. "Here's the absolute minimum overview, sir. You should read this part now, before we continue this briefing."

Hanse scanned the _précis _, tamping down his outrage with all the professionalism he could muster. He paused at one entry. "This. This drug derived from the blood of the Vandalia Monitor lizard. You've verified it?"

Quintus nodded. "The research is firm. The drug, and it's mind-altering effects were verified in 2639. But the Vandalia Monitor is extinct in the wild thanks to our terraforming of Vandalia. We were convinced that it was extinct, period. If ComStar retains a breeding population..."

"They get their ideal population. Calm, tranquil sheep," Hanse spat. He paused. "Wait. There's something here..." He paged through the document swiftly. "Something... I almost have it."

The flickering pages slowed to a halt. "Operation _Doppelganger._ You note here that Maximilian's own son was scheduled to be replaced, if he didn't shape up to what Max's demented idea of what a 'true' heir to the Confederation should be."

"Yes, sir."

"Myself, Tormana — and who else, Quintus?"

"Who else, sir?"

"If two puppets, why not three? Marik, perhaps? Anton's rebellion begins to make a hideous sense. And if three, why not five? Their own pet council, to 'peacefully choose' a new First Lord of the reassembled Star League. An attractive solution to a frustrating problem. So why haven't they? Perhaps they have. And Mencken strikes again."

"Sir?"

"H. L. Mencken, twentieth century journalist. 'For every complex and difficult problem, there is an answer that is simple, easy, and wrong.' And ComStar has apparently gone for the simple, easy, obvious answer to what they see as their problem. _Something those subtle, secretive, manipulative bastards have never done before!_

"If Madman Max the puppet master was to be pulling 'our' strings, and ComStar is pulling his, _then who is pulling theirs? _ComStar, for all their faults, is cunning. This is far too elaborate, far too _dramatic,_ for them. What's the end game here _and whose game is it?_ Something is drastically wrong here, and it's not in the information we've been given."

Allard looked disgusted with himself. "My apologies, sire. I don't know how I missed that. How we _all_ missed it. I'll see to it that the analysis groups get to work on that right away."

Hanse waved a hand. "Too close to the problem, I'd wager. You said there was something else?"

Allard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "We're concerned about the Eoans."

"Eoans?" blinked Hanse.

"'Executive Outcomes' is a bit of a mouthful and gets rather tiresome after a while. Our analysts started calling them 'Eoans' as shorthand, and it sort of stuck."

Hanse chuckled. "Pithy. I wonder what they'd think of it."

"We could find out," offered Quintus, smirking.

"Not worth the trouble," said Hanse. "So far, they're the golden goose, and I wouldn't want to ire it."

Allard frowned. "Along those lines, sir —"

"I'm not going to like what I'm about to hear, am I."

"Actually, you might be greatly amused, m'lord."

That garnered a raised eyebrow. "How so?"

Allard took the expensive datapad and began tapping on it. "Given that we weren't aware of how much the Eoans were aware, standard procedure was to attempt to infiltrate them. And obviously, we weren't the only ones. All of the Big Five, along with the Periphery states, attempted infiltration. It was the _reaction_ to that infiltration that was telling, sire."

"Do tell?"

"The Periphery powers, the ones the Eoans seem to be forging alliances with? Their agents were spotted, and gently chivvied along, treated in much the same way one might treat a precocious child. Unharmed, and even allowed small amounts of information to encourage the growing alliance." Quintus shook his head. "Our agent received a slightly different treatment."

Hanse looked at him sharply. "Explain."

Quintus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Our man was _firmly_ instructed that the attempt was to be made in a non-hostile manner. No civilians were to be harmed, and the mission scrubbed rather than risk that. It would seem the Eoans were somehow aware of his orders, sire. He entered the building and was making his way towards what he believed to be the main data center for that local office when he lost consciousness."

"I take it he recovered unharmed?"

Allard was now looking at a point above and to the left of Hanse, carefully avoiding his lieges gaze. "It's more of _where_ he recovered, sir."

"Oh?"

"Aboard a dropship belonging to a Canopan pleasure circus, already on its way to docking with a jumpship, my lord."

This elicited a deadpan look from the Prince of the Federated Suns. "I think I misheard you. Please repeat that."

"He awoke aboard the dropship of a pleasure circus, on its way to its next stop, and was told that his stay with them had been paid for in advance, should he wish to... partake. And that he had pre-paid passage to New Avalon - but only _after_ their next stop. Which was one month away."

Hanse twitched. "You're serious."

"Yes, sire. He was allowed to communicate with us, but there simply weren't any opportunities for him to jump ship until the next stop the circus made. Which was clearly the point. We were having our hands gently spanked."

"You _are_ serious," snorted Hanse. "Well, did he?"

Quintus didn't dodge the question. "Yes, sir. Which in itself was telling. We immediately obtained the latest banking records for that particular circus, and the term 'well paid' is a colossal understatement. The Eoans could have _bought_ that circus outright for what they paid."

"That's more or less what they did, Quintus." Hanse couldn't help the annoyed grin tugging at his lips. "I see what you mean about gentle wrist slaps. We were clearly sent a message here."

"As were the Lyrans, sire. Their orders were also to make a non-hostile attempt. The LOKI agent sent to do so was captured. When she reported back, it was from Herotitus."

That garnered a laugh from Hanse. "Let me guess. The most expensive and exclusive spa on the planet? With all expenses paid for in advance? I'm beginning to like these people. They have a sense of humor."

Allard nodded to his prince. "Yes, sir. And to drive the point home, when she attempted to leave, she found that every seat on every dropship had been booked up, in advance, for two weeks. When the LOKI station on Herotitus made inquiries, they learned that EO had offered every dropship owner _three times_ the value of a brand-new ship of equivalent class, simply to book all available seats. Needless to say, that worked. The Loki agent simply returned to her hotel and waited out the two weeks. She did take advantage of the spa, as it had already been paid for. Royal class treatment that even I'd be jealous of."

"And who could blame her?" chuckled Hanse. Then the humor quickly left his face. His lips thinned. "I suspect that the Kuritans didn't get off as lightly."

"They didn't, sire. The ISF sent in a DEST team to attack the Eoan office on New St. Andrews. There were no survivors. Independent witnesses informed us that the bodies of the strike team were returned to the Combine. There didn't seem to have been any liberties taken with the bodies and the deceased were treated as respectfully as possible under the circumstances. But one of our agents inside the Combine sent word that inside each coffin, along with the bodies, were four cheap tanto, lacquered in red, with gaudy gold sageo."

Hanse was impressed. "Subtle, yet clearly insulting. I like it. What was Takashi's reaction?"

"The ISF case officer who'd assigned the team was 'invited onward.' As painfully as Subhash Indrahar could make the invitation."

"Typical of Takashi," snorted Hanse. "And the Maskirovka?"

For the first time, ire sparked in Allard's eyes. "Those scum attempted to take hostages from among the children of the locally hired employees of the Eoan office on Taurus, to pressure them into betraying their employers. This action apparently _provoked_ the Eoans."

"How 'provoked'?"

"After the children were rescued, the surviving members of the Maskirovka team were stuffed into pressure suits and air-dropped from orbit over Taurus, sire. The head of the local EO office then officially apologized to the Tauran government for, and I quote, 'having cluttered up the local orbitals with gene-trash.'"

"No parachutes?"

"No parachutes, sire."

"I'm _very_ much beginning to like these people, Quintus."

"Then you'll find their next act amusing, sire." Allard highlighted one of the files.

"They're selling _jumpships_?"

"It would seem so. A modernized, simplified, _Liberty-_class jumpship."

"And how do we know this?"

"One of our agents who deserves to be either promoted, or shot, or possibly both." Allard gave an amused sigh. "He heard rumors of the Eoans leasing and selling jumpships, walked into an EO office, and simply _asked_ if they were selling ships, and if so, what were the specs..."

Hanse nearly snorted his whiskey. "Seriously?"

"Yes, sire. I can't decide if he's a genius or merely insane. No matter which, it appeared to work. The Eoans handed over a brochure with the ship specifications. It appears to be, as noted, a _Liberty_-class jumpship that's been streamlined and simplified to the point that - aside from the jump drive itself - any nation capable of maintaining a dropship can maintain one of these ships."

Hanse quickly paged through the brochure, noting the price list. "And they have that many to sell? Why aren't _we_ getting in on this bargain, Quintus?"

"Because they have adopted a 'Periphery-first' sales policy, sire. Our agent asked about that as well, and was told that if Inner Sphere nations wanted to buy, they'd have to pay just the same as everyone else. Which meant offers of extra-territoriality, their odd 'franchised-consulates', and treatment of their company as an independent nation."

"Which the Periphery nations were more than happy to grant, I'll wager." Hanse frowned. "And which any number of our corporations were irked to hear, I'll wager, as the only person in the Federated Suns who can grant that sort of status—"

"Is yourself, sire. Indeed."

"And the figures for the Periphery worlds?"

"The Outworlds Alliance has basically taken the position of 'whatever you want, you got', to a degree that would embarrass the Canopians. They're bending over backwards to make the Eoans happy and they offered Executive Outcomes an entire world - one of the outer planets that they'd been forced to abandon during the post-League retrenchment. In return, they will be taking delivery of two _dozen_ of these _Liberty_-class ships, with more to come over the next decade."

"And we can't get in on this. Damn. All right, Quintus, take note. As soon as you leave this office, set someone to finding out how many of these ships the Eoans have, and how _we_ can get our hands on some of them. If these figures are correct, these people have to have a working shipyard — hell, _several_ working shipyards. And if we can't own those shipyards, we can certainly buy what comes out of them."

Allard nodded, taking mental notes.

"What about the others?"

"The Combine made demands, and were politely shown the door, m'lord. _Rude_ demands, so we suspect that no sales will ever be made to House Kurita. It's possible that they may try to buy ships at one remove, through the Outworlds Alliance, but they haven't made the attempt as of yet. We will have to wait to see what will happen if they try. The Lyrans haven't had the opportunity as yet — most of the Eoan holdings are too far from Lyran space. The Canopians are ordering ships in bulk, and doing much the same as the Outworlds Alliance. A minor world on the edge of Canopian space, one lost to the post-League retrenchment, has been signed over to Eoan control in return for a currently unspecified number of jumpships."

"And the Taurans?"

"Don't wish to purchase any ships at present, but have made inquiries as to the possibility of repairing and reactivating their own shipyards with Eoan assistance. They're also interested in help rebuilding the docks that produced the _Snowden_ mining stations, including the KF booms that allowed the _Snowdens_ to be transported from system to system. And initial reports are that the Eoans are at least willing to listen to such requests. It seems to align with their demonstrated intentions to generally uplift the Periphery."

"Crap." The word lacked any real vehemence. "All right, getting into the good books of the Eoans just climbed to the bottom of the top ten 'to-do' list. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sire. One final note — the Eoan's hatred of piracy in all forms will be expanding to the other side of our borders in the near future."

"How so?"

Allard winced slightly. "The Taurans have expressed the desire to retake the Pirate's Haven Star Cluster. If you'll recall, it was Tauran territory until the Succession Wars. The Eoans have offered their assistance, financial, martial and technological. If the assault goes the way the Taurans hope, they intend follow it up by cleaning up the Tortuga Dominions."

"Definitely in the top ten list, Quintus. Make that _very_ clear to Nicholas when you get back to your office. And Quintus?"

"Yes, sire?"

"_Find_ them. Find their home. Before someone else does."


	7. Chapter 7

Anton Marik glared at the file displayed on the small tablet. The resolution was, to say the least, impressive. His brother had spared nothing when it came to Anton's prison, and it showed. He had the best of everything in his cell. Anything he could possibly want, any physical comfort he desired, he could ask for and receive — except his freedom, of course.

And one other item.

In all honesty, he couldn't fault Janos for that one. You can't provide what you don't possess. But that didn't mean you couldn't go out and get it for yourself.

A sardonic smile split his face, and he thumbed the power button on the reader. He set it aside and beckoned to the guard who was currently serving as his personal aid — and probably his assassin, if need be.

"Please inform the Honorable Captain General that I accede to his terms, freely and of my own will."

The guard nodded impassively, and stepped towards the locked door, whispering into the communicator set into the wall next to it.

Oh, yes. Janos might not be able to supply him with this _particular_ item. But being allowed to hunt it down for himself? Even better. And more than worth the compromise.

Come what may, execution or redemption, this would be more than worth the price.

**.oOo.**

Tiepolo smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile usually seen only by people who would soon disappear. At the moment, such disposals had been put on hold. Unfortunately. Fortunately for the other man in the room, the smile was directed at the large holoscreen on the wall opposite Julian's desk.

Bigelow stood before him. The transformation of the man was near-miraculous. He was not, and never would be, truly comfortable as a head of ROM. He lacked the subtle, instinctive treachery of a spy. But his self-confidence had advanced by leaps and bounds. That, combined with his skills in manipulating a bureaucracy made him an excellent weapon. He would do well when he transferred to Internal Affairs.

They were both watching the screen. Or rather, the man in the screen, who was gesturing wildly with both hands as a voice from off-screen questioned him. A text crawl at the bottom of the screen was translating the sign language in real time.

_"Their technology is at least equal to the Belters. I have seen evidence of locally produced jump ships, and worse, of some form of FTL communication. I cannot tell if it was a hyperpulse generator, or some other method."_

"How many ships do they have?"

_"I don't know. I was kept away from their docks. But I was allowed access to their unclassified news. From cultural references, they appear to be like the Belters, or the Columbians. Unrestricted technological advancement, rejection of Blake's philosophy, and outright contempt for everything ComStar stands for."_

Julian looked over to Bigelow. "He's learned quickly. Well done, Bigelow."

The career bureaucrat actually blushed. "It's not all to my credit, Primus. I simply saw the way. It was the people working for me who made things happen."

"Still, you led them well. Your thoughts on the people he describes?"

At the heart of every bureaucrat lived a librarian. Every scrap of information was filed, cross-indexed, then hoarded against future need. Bigelow frowned thoughtfully.

"Primus, the discovery of the Columbian and Terralibre colonies prove that there are societies that have eschewed life on Terran-type worlds, freely choosing to live in deep space. I believe the Executive Outcomes organization is a front group, a façade, for just such a society. And that unfortunately, they found us first." He pointed to the screen, where Vesar's hands were moving even faster, as he tried to voicelessly express what he'd witnessed during his captivity.

"How do you arrive at that conclusion, Bigelow?"

Julian hid a smile as the younger man straightened with pride. The self-confidence he'd been encouraging in the man had worked wonders.

"Sir, so far, everything we've retrieved, from Vesar and from others, shows us a society that knew about us before we knew about them, a society that rejects our beliefs and standards and appears to be actively limiting us from entering their territory. Or even locating that same territory. Vesar's interrogations describe a freespace society with few Terran worlds. It's utopia from a Belter's perspective, a utopia without ComStar."

"Yes." Tiepolo nodded thoughtfully. The consistent rejection of ComStar's techno-theological beliefs by the Belters had long been a thorn in the side of the Order. One they couldn't remove without risking total disclosure of their true objectives. The Belters had used their short-lived independence, during the brief period between the fall of Amaris and the arrival of Blake, to heavily arm themselves. ComStar could crush them, but the effort required would leave them open to a take-over by any of the five Successor States. And the ill-will ComStar had garnered over the past three hundred years guaranteed that such an assault _would_ take place.

Julian steepled his fingers. "So. Three slowboats remain unaccounted for. They could be the origination of these 'Eoans', but that would place them somewhere within the boundaries of the former Hegemony. Slowboats simply do not have the range required to leave the Inner Sphere. There are also a number of jump ships that have 'mysteriously' vanished over the past nine hundred years." He tapped his forefingers. "Bigelow, instruct your people to run a match against missing ships versus known nationalist/separatist groups with Belter tendencies who've 'vanished' at or near the same time as the loss of those ships."

"Immediately, sir. And I believe we've discovered the reason for Vesar's disability."

"Oh?"

"He keeps repeating that, from what he witnessed first hand, these people have FTL communications." Bigelow bit his lip before going on. Improved confidence or not, his superior wouldn't like the next.

"He believes that when the Eoans feel they're sufficiently entrenched in the Inner Sphere, they will offer a rival messaging service using their own transmission facilities. Hence the drugs in his system preventing him from communicating this discovery to us."

Tiepolo hummed thoughtfully. "Which leads directly to the conclusion that they believe they will be properly positioned to resist our efforts to counter them _before_ the drugs wear off and Vesar would presumably be able to inform us of their activities. Making us dance to their tune and timing."

"Yes, sir. I don't believe that they anticipated our end-run around their drugs using sign language. Aside from battle signs used in combat, ASL hasn't been used in centuries thanks to cybernetic hearing implants."

"So, if you're correct, we have a thin edge over them. We know that they intend to establish a rival FTL network, and that they aren't aware that we know. We also have a rough idea of when, if not where." Tiepolo frowned again. "Continue the interrogation. We need every bit of information inside Kristofur's skull. Wring him dry. Keep me informed."

"Yes, my Primus. By your command?"

Julian nodded towards the door, and Bigelow slipped away. He suspected that ROM's interrogators would be having many long nights ahead of them.

**.oOo.**

Candace Liao paced back and forth in her quarters, agitated and restless. One of her spies had obtained a copy of the files that had sent a shockwave of astonishment and distrust across the Inner Sphere.

Body doubles.

_Brainwashed_ body doubles.

She felt little affection for her father, and even less trust. But could he truly be _this_ mad? Replacing his own son with... with someone who wasn't even of Liao blood, simply to be able to carry on his grandiose plans to become the ultimate First Lord of the Inner Sphere?

And if he was willing to do that to her brother, barely nineteen...

What did that say for her own eventual destiny?

Touching a small gemstone she wore on a necklace, the listening devices in her quarters were fed a convincing set of lies. She sent for her handlady - a woman who could give the Maskirovka lessons in tradecraft.

Her father was mad. Her sister even more so. Damn them. And damn herself.

Something had to be done.

She had to think like a Liao.

**.oOo.**

Jared stiffened slightly as a probe tapped one of his sensors. He dragged his attention away from the cyberspace of financial reports and returned his main focus to the physical world. "Taxation, Edison! How do you keep avoiding my ghosts?!"

The spymaster in question smiled. "That's what you pay me for, sir. And I have something here that I think you'll enjoy. The latest reports from Eris." A file flashed invisibly between them, hanging mid-air in Jared's HUD. He paged through it quickly.

"So, ComStar thinks they know what we are, and what we have planned."

"They do, sir."

"I love it when a plan comes together."

"As do I, sir. May I assume that _Freeplay_ is a go?"

"It is. Alert the franchulates. In five megs, they can begin accepting mail from contracted customers for transmission between franchulates only. Have TacStrike ramp up franchulate security accordingly. ComStar will be feeling rather murderous about our eating their lunch, and doing it ahead of schedule. I'd like our people to be able to reply in kind."

"Already done, sir. Mr. Snord's been rather helpful with that. We have enough trusted native Battlemech pilots to train our own people in the tactics of industrialized warfare. Though I do wish that wasn't necessary."

"As do I, Edison, as do I."

**.oOo.**

Colonel Wolf suppressed the urge to rub his hands together in glee. A commanding officer didn't do that. Not in public, anyway.

His people had literally emptied the caches they'd left outside the Inner Sphere, leaving behind only the warships, and answering all questions about the equipment with a casual "we bought it from Executive Outcomes." The frustration he could feel from the spies surrounding his unit warmed the cockles of his heart. The Dragoons were growing, enough that he could add three more regiments to the original five if he so desired. He probably would.

Broker had come through as promised. Deliveries of _Crockett_'s and _Chameleon_'s were already taking place, and a number of his people who specialized in light mechs were rapsodizing over the _Arbiter_. It wasn't Clan-tech. By Clan standards, it was a technological joke. But placing that much firepower in a 35 ton mech and making it work, using _only_ Inner Sphere tech? Impressive. And perhaps a little disconcerting. Everyone who'd come in contact with the _Arbiter_ found themselves wondering — if the Kyfhon were't limited by the need to hide their tech-base, what _would _be the limits? They found themselves comparing the best the Clans had to offer, and wondering if it would be enough to face the Kyfhon.

It had helped that Jared and his people were the flavor of the month with Janos Marik. They'd been offered a defensive contract with the Free World Leagues, along the Lyran border, a contract that allowed them time and space to heal from the wounds inflicted by the Marik civil war.

The fact that Janos Marik now owned three brand-new _Liberty_-class jumpships had nothing to do with the offer of the contract.

That was Jaime's story, and he was sticking to it.

Heh.

Now he had to find as many Elementals as possible. _Hungry_ Elementals. The first shipment of one hundred twenty-five _Guardians_ was about to arrive, and he needed to fill them with pilots.

The Inner Sphere was about to learn what "armored infantry" _really_ meant.

**.oOo.**

The Coordinator of the Draconis Combine was not a happy man. And that unhappiness was currently rolling downhill. Right now, a small amount of that unhappiness was directed at a childhood friend.

"Subhash. This information perturbs me. What do you know?"

"The accusation concerning his ancestry appears to bear some merit, my Coordinator. Genetic testing will be required to confirm it. The ISF will require your authorization to open the graves to obtain the required tissue samples."

"Does Samsonov suspect?"

"Not yet, my Lord. But he will. While we control access to the information inside the Combine, others who have received copies are unfortunately loose of lip. He will eventually learn of the accusation. The only question in my mind is that of will he fight, or will he flee."

Takashi nodded. "Place your best people around him, and his retainers. I will not see the Dragon defiled by another Von Rohrs dynasty."

**.oOo.**

Cranston considered sending one of his people for a prybar. He'd need one to get the damn smile off his face.

He was now the owner, free and clear, of a _Liberty_-class jumpship. Two _Union_'s and a _Mule_ took up three of it's four dropship collars.

It had been a brief living hell trying to assemble a jumpship-qualified crew that wouldn't just 'jack the ship and sell it to the highest bidder, but he'd done it. Put together a motley collection of people who were willing to pledge their loyal to his mercenary company. Hell, they were willing to pledge their souls, if that was what it took to man a jumpship again.

The captain was one of the Scorpions who'd followed him on this deranged mission to the Inner Sphere, and someone whom he could trust implicitly. A former member of the Heartvenom Cluster, Ethan Yeh was as strong as the _necrosia _he'd once taken.

Now what would he do with that empty fourth collar? There had to be a nicely armed dropship out there somewhere, held hostage by some undeserving piratical type scum... all he had to do was find them, and rescue the poor thing.

He'd call Jared. That spymaster of his had contacts across the Sphere.

There _had_ to be a contract out there, just waiting for him and his people.

And some historical artifacts to loo— err, _rescue._ Right. Rescue.

**.oOo.**

_You realize that not only are you in danger, your entire nation is at risk. The Sphere knows about your doppelgänger, and even your current "allies" will be wondering if they're the next on your list to be 'replaced' with one of your minions._

"Be silent!"

_While Candace is loyal, and Tormano at best indifferent to the throne, Romano is a member of the Kali cult, Max. Her loyalty lies not with the Confederation, but to a fictional deity with a taste for blood sacrifice. You should think about that. Unless you have a fetish for being strangled with silk cords and your heart surrendered as a burnt offering on some gore-stained altar._

There was a long pause.

"I'm listening."

**.oOo.**

"Greetings, Alessandro Steiner."

The former Archon of the Lyran Commonwealth jerked back, spilling his whisky. His study, the most defended room in his mansion, and there was a hologram floating over his desk? Impossible!

"Guards! Guards!"

The face looked off to one side. "Pay up. I told you he wasn't man enough."

Alessandro's fist hammered the desk. "You dare?!"

"Of course we dare. If you want to destroy your nation for lack of information, hey, that's your right. MYOB, as always." The hologram flickered and went out.

"WAIT!"

The image returned. "Do you trust your guards, Alessandro?"

The once (and hopefully future) ruler snarled, but gave the signal that caused his guards to retreat to a distance where they could cover him, but not overhear him. "Speak. And quickly."

"I am Raymond Gunn of Executive Outcomes. We hope you've heard of our organization."

Alessandro's reply was grudging, but to the affirmative.

"The Lyran Commonwealth has a problem, Alessandro. Assuming all goes well, that problem is still twenty-five years away, but it's headed towards the Commonwealth. And when it arrives, it will _break_ the Commonwealth. The question, Alessandro Steiner, is this: are you patriotic enough to sacrifice your personal political ambitions, if that is what's required to save the Commonwealth?"

"Why would I want to do that? Any problem that threatens the Commonwealth clearly requires myself and myself alone to defeat it."

The floating head rolled its eyes. "So you think you're immortal?"

"What?"

"All men die, Steiner. If the Commonwealth cannot survive without your personal guidance, then it cannot survive period. Or do we need to remind you of your 'brilliant' Operation Concentrated Weakness?"

The surge of wild fury threatened to overwhelm Alessandro. "That may not have been my best plan," he gritted out, teeth clenched.

"The point remains that the removal of the garrison forces encouraged rebellion on the part of the hungry and oppressed that those very same garrisons once controlled. Your earlier victories weren't the political acumen that you so fondly prefer to believe you possess, but mere random luck. You crave action and adventure. You desire to live the romantic life of a rogue. _You_ are a greater threat to the Commonwealth than the Mariks or Kuritas ever were. The question is, are you courageous enough to admit that? Because if you are, we have something for you. You'll never be Archon again, but you _can_ be a hero to every man, woman and child of the Lyran Commonwealth.

"Now... Are you interested?"

**.oOo.**

"Haakon Magnusson."

"My name is Jon Einarsson."

"Haakon, Jon or Albert Einstein. As you please. You may be interested to know that the ISF is looking for Haakon Magnusson, and the photo they are using for ID purposes at the moment happens to look exceedingly like you. Be whomever you please, Subash Indrahar won't care. Your arrest, detention, and eventual execution will serve his purposes just as well as if you were the 'real' Magnusson. I'd strongly suggest that if you value the integrity of your own skin, you find some other place to be."

The Scandinavian finished his coffee and rose to leave. "Might I ask whom my new... 'friend' is? Not that I'm Haakon Magnusson, mind you."

"No friend, merely a business transaction. The Kuritans have annoyed us, and by keeping you out of prison and out of their reach, we're going to annoy them right back. Simple enough. Now go. We'll see one another again, when the time is right."

**.oOo.**

The letter used a code that she'd fondly believed that only she and Arthur knew. The message was short, and to the point.

_Archon Steiner._

_Your ... adventures earlier in your life with Arthur Luvon aren't quite the secret you'd prefer them to be. Nor is a certain alternative form of communication between the stars._

_Your best people seem to have a bit of difficulty reproducing it. We suggest the following formulas attached to this missive to simplify the device for true mass production. _

_It will take you several years to build the required factories, but we hope to give you the time you will need. Use that time well._

_And may we suggest a bit of house-cleaning? You seem to have an infestation of techno-pagans, as it were. You might want to deal with them now, while you still can. Time is _not_ on your side in this._

_Executive Outcomes, LLP._

**.oOo.**

Kyalla Centrella was a woman who wasn't ashamed of her appetites. A powerful seductress, she could bend men and women easily.

Except for those blasted Eoans. Drat them. Or bless them. She wasn't certain which.

She'd taken the throne from her mother four years previously, plotting and scheming to give the Free Worlds League what it deserved, only to have her dreams — shattered might be the wrong word, but what she had received certainly wasn't what she'd dreamed of. Not that she was going to turn it down, mind you.

Her fledgling plans to form an alliance with the Humphreys had fallen apart with the emergence of the mysterious new people from the Deep Periphery. But while her plans for the FWL had disintegrated, the resources the Eoans had brought to her nation had sparked a renaissance among her people. The factory producing _Shadow Hawks_ had already opened a second line (in less than four years!) and ground had been broken for a second Mountain Wolf Battlemechs factory. The new _Merlins_ it produced would be walking out of the factory and into MAF service any day now.

But her standard tactics of seducing men (and women) simply didn't work with the Eoans. Oh, the locally hired personnel were no problem, but the Eoans themselves were as difficult to seduce as a boulder. She snorted. At least a boulder could be carved into an appealing shape, as it were. The Eoans? She'd have better luck romancing a mountain range.

That wouldn't stop her from accepting what they were offering, though. The sales of the _Pike_ support vehicle had skyrocketed since the release of the video showing them defending an Eoan supply complex from pirates. Why, oh _why_ hadn't anyone considered simply ganging _up_ on a battlemech? Had the whole "noble knights of the battlefield" concept made all of humanity _stupid_? These days she often entertained that as a possibility after listening to senior officers of her armed forces constantly whine and moan over how 'boorish', 'crude' and 'uncouth' it was to pit six armored fighting vehicles against a single battlemech.

If she had to listen to even one hour more of it, heads were going to roll. Even if she had to commission the carving of a royal chopping block to get the job done.

Her pilots were happy, though. Relations with the Taurans might not be as well off as she wished, but the Outworlds Alliance had no grievances with her people, and the trade of pilot instructors for medical personnel was at an all time high. Shipments of the _Vulcan_ fighter were rebuilding her aerospace forces at a speed she could only have dreamed of a few years ago.

But what truly irked her?

That it took _outsiders_ to point out to her people that while Star League technology might be beyond their grasp, they could still easily build designs from the Age of War. And that those designs were just as effective now as they were six hundred years ago. Her non-battlemech armored forces were now being equipped with fusion-powered _Merkava_ Mk VIII's, and with odds of two or three on one, even the most enthusiastic of mech jocks tended to step cautiously around the battlefield. The older, more primitive reactors powering them might not be as light or as slim as modern designs, but they could be produced easily, in bulk, something that couldn't be said for more modern designs. And they were half the cost.

She'd already ordered Magistracy researchers to study - and if needs be, outright copy, pride be damned! - designs that the Terran Alliance and Terran Hegemony had long since abandoned as appallingly outdated. They might be primitive indeed, but they worked and they could be built by the Magistracy. And that was all that mattered to her.

It helped that the piracy problem had almost entirely vanished. The few pirates that dared to stick their heads up were quickly relieved of the weighty burden on the ends of their filthy necks, with most of the sensible ones fleeing to the Fifty Star Cluster, the Tortuga Dominions, or vanishing into the Deep Periphery beyond the former Rim Worlds Collective.

She sighed, and began revising her political plans for what felt like the thousandth time. This _week._ The alliance with the Humphreys might have fallen through thanks to the Captain-General's sudden attentiveness to the complaints of the Anduriens, but by that same token, the ambassadors of the Free Worlds were thankfully _listening_ to her diplomats, and appeared more willing to make compromises. Worlds she'd never thought she'd rule again were being offered to her government in return for relatively minor concessions. (She suspected that Janos was saving all of his bile for ComStar. The eventual, inevitable, explosion would probably be clearly visible from the Lesser Magellanic Cloud.)

She could work with this.

Of course, it helped that the Inner Sphere was in turmoil. Word of what the Eoans had done to ComStar had spread fast, despite the best efforts of the robed fools to suppress it. And _Operation Doppelganger_ had her teeth on edge. If ComStar was willing to try that with nations like the Federated Suns and the Free Worlds League, how much further would they be willing to go with her poor people? It wouldn't take that much to wipe out all of House Centrella - the only reason the Star League had withheld its hand was that Ian Cameron didn't need a star nation on life support draining his funds, and he damned well knew it. Even the arrogant First Lord of the League understood that a dead or dying star nation was a political and financial liability the Star League could not afford. Hence the "Good Neighbor" policy after the war.

ComStar, on the other hand...

Those pseudo-religious scum would throw her people to the wolves without a second thought. They didn't care how many worlds died, so long as the survivors groveled at the feet of their accursed Primus.

She sighed again and reached out for a piece of paper. Damn it, she didn't _need _this. Why didn't her husband understand her urges? She sighed and tore the death warrant in half. Like it or not, her daughter loved the man, and she couldn't afford to alienate her heir at this young an age. Instead, she scribbled a quick note to one of her loyal secretaries. The Eoans had opened several offices on her worlds and they didn't give a tinker's damn about what ComStar thought. If they could somehow be persuaded, if she could make just the right offer... _they_ could be the ones to tell her people about what ComStar was trying to do, and she could show (technically) clean hands in the matter.

However much her husband resented her affairs, no matter what he thought about her sensual appetites, even he understood you didn't change horses in mid-stream, and you certainly didn't change leaders in the middle of a genocidal war.

And unless she was blind, deaf and dumb, that's exactly what the entire Sphere was headed for.

She sent out for a sandwich. And coffee. Lots of coffee. It was going to be a _long_ damned night.

**.oOo.**

Neil Avellar felt frustrated and impotent. He'd never expected nor wanted the throne of the Outworlds Alliance, but it had sought him out after his father's hunting accident, like some ruthless predator. Now winds of change were blowing across the realm he'd never wanted to rule and he was forced to deal with them as best he could for the sake of the people he loved.

The Eoans were to blame, he felt. They might not wish his people any personal ill-will, but where power and money travels, so too went the callous and the greedy.

Still, money and other resources were pouring into his nation like a flood tide. And just as the rising flood waters of the Nile had once nourished the nation of Egypt, now they'd nourish his people. That didn't make them any less of a danger, though.

His people, with their contempt for battlemechs, had taken to the _Vulcan_ like an enamored groom to his first love. Pilots and would-be pilots were coming forward in droves, willing to do almost anything for the chance to fly an aerospace fighter again.

The fact that they'd have the opportunity to kill more pirates was merely frosting on the metaphorical cake, so to speak.

In addition, some creative diplomacy with the Taurans had _expanded_ their ability to enforce law and order within their own borders. He'd managed to arrange the purchase of several dozen _Tigress-_class gunships in return for regular reports from the Alliance Service Arm concerning the disposition of Davion forces on the OA-Federated Suns border. Concordat paranoia ran deep, and they were willing to do nearly anything to expand their overview of their most loathed enemy - particularly if doing so also helped to divert valuable Davion forces that might otherwise be deployed on the Suns/Concordat front.

Meanwhile, the simple and easy to maintain _Tigress_ close patrol craft with its four man crew had more than enough heavy firepower to make even combat dropships think twice about engaging. Pirates were always about the money. If attacking meant losing money, they simply wouldn't do it.

The Alliance AeroSpace Arm was moving _Vulcans_ and _Tigress's_ en mass to every threatened system and slowly smashing what few pirates survived attacking the Eoan ships - who, while they didn't fire first, _always_ fired last. (The initial reports of apparent nuclear detonations during in-system conflicts with pirate ships had Alliance Military Corp observers panicked at first, but once it was clear that the Eoans were abiding by the Ares Accords, the AeroSpace Arm of the AMC more or less sat back, passed around the beer and popcorn and proceeded to enjoy the pretty lightshow.)

One thing he was entirely in favor of was the flood of aid the Alliance Medical Corp was receiving from the Magistracy. Lady Centrella had given her doctors and nurses their marching orders, and with their assistance the level of medical care for both military and civilians inside the Alliance had leapt nearly a century forward. Even the most militant of the Omiss faithful couldn't protest the humanitarian aid the Magistracy was providing. The (very) few who'd tried had been mercilessly mocked by their fellows until they fell silent.

The dozens of jumpships the Eoans had provided hadn't hurt.

It had torn at his soul to sacrifice a world in return for mere material possessions, but the Eoans had been unnaturally generous, insisting that they wouldn't accept any world that might still have a population capable of any form of self-rule, and that the base they wanted needn't be anywhere within current Alliance borders. That concession had eased the burden of guilt on his soul. With the increase in trade provided by the jumpships came a rise in the standard of living that helped all his people, even those who chose to shun technology. The twin spectors of famine and water shortage no longer stalked his realm.

The strangling ties binding the Periphery to the Inner Sphere, ties that had taken Ian Cameron and his successors a century to build, were finally being broken.

But why?

What was in it for the Eoans?

_That_ was the question that was driving him to drink.

If only he didn't fear learning the answer.

As a child he'd loved classical music, and now a refrain from an old song echoed in his head.

_Nothing comes from nothing,_

_Nothing ever could._

There would be a price to be paid. There was _always _a price to be paid. And Neil Avellar prayed to the gods that he no longer believed in that the price his people would have to pay wouldn't return to haunt them for untold centuries to come.

**.oOo.**

Anton couldn't help but smile. And the smile made him laugh, garnering odd looks from his guards. Here he was, in one of the tightest political prisons on Atreus, probably never to see the outside world again as a free man, and he was laughing. He waved towards the dart-festooned photo hanging on the wall, and the guards nodded respectfully, returning to their duties. _That_ they could understand.

His cells had been remodeled and expanded, giving him something of a greeting area and office. One of his more historically-minded guards had made an off-handed comparison to the Tower of London, and after looking it up, Anton had to admit it was rather apt, both for what they'd done to his accommodations, and to his current political position.

Sweeping the papers on his desk into a more or less orderly pile, he awaited the dozen men being escorted into his "office." Finally. His brother _did_ have to take appropriate precautions, he understood that now.

After the twelve men had seated themselves under the watchful eyes of his guard, he cleared his throat and began.

"Traditionally, the opening words used in a situation like this are usually 'I suppose you're wondering why I've called you all here today.'"

A few smiled at the hoary old joke.

"It might be a cliché, but it's true. I know you're all wondering why I, a traitor to the Free Worlds League, am not currently chained to a wall in a dungeon somewhere. And I know three of you are afraid _you_ are about to be arrested yourselves. You needn't worry."

He picked up a tablet and tapped it. A screen came to life behind him.

"You all know what I've done. More importantly, you've all been briefed on what _ComStar_ has done. And I know for a fact that my brother made you read the portions of the Eoan Files concerning our nation until your eyes probably bled."

No reaction. Good. These were supposed to be the best SAFE had to offer. And three of them he'd personally turned.

"It's brutally simple. I'm still useful. _If_ I can be trusted to remain loyal to my brother. And my brother made me an offer I literally Could. Not. Refuse."

Another tap on the tablet brought a photo, a full head shot, up on the wide screen.

"He offered me the head of the bastard who put me in here. Vesar Kristofur."

He eyed the twelve.

"Does anyone here think I'd turn _that_ offer down? No? I didn't think so."

Kristofur's photo shrank, and slid down to one corner of the screen, replaced by a very recognizable logo.

"Only two conditions were attached to that offer, gentlemen. One, obviously, my loyalty to my brother. Two, that if I wanted Vesar's head, I had to go get it _myself._ And frankly, gentlemen, I had absolutely no problem with that second condition. In fact, I _insisted_ upon it."

That got an almost inaudible chuckle from one of the on-looking guards.

"And that is why you are here, gentlemen." He stabbed a finger at the logo on the screen. "ComStar led me down the garden path to rebellion. I could accept that. I _wanted_ to be Captain-General, and was willing to accept help from anyone who offered it. I freely admit that. But despite that, I'm a patriot. I believe in the Free Worlds League. The thought of our becoming a wholly owned subsidiary of ComStar is utterly abhorrent to me."

He took a sip of water to sooth his throat.

"Of course, the fact that they intended to replace me with a brain-washed imposter might have had a little to do with my decision."

That _did_ draw a grim chuckle from his audience, and he honored it with a twisted smirk.

"I'm never going to leave this prison. I might be able to trade it for a larger one, someday. The size of a planet, if I'm fortunate. If I can _earn_ that privilege. But right now, I'm exactly where I deserve to be, for being blind enough to trust ComStar. Now _you_ are going to help me regain my brother's trust." He thumped back down into his seat. "You are here to begin the League's repayment of ComStar's treachery. From this day forward, gentlemen, we - _all_ of us - are going to make ComStar bleed."

His guards began to pass out read-only datapads to the twelve.

"You will be my twelve disciples. You will go where I no longer can. You will find me the bare backs into which we can plant our daggers. And when we are done, there will _be_ no ComStar within the borders of the Free Worlds League. Because every single one of them will flee, or they will die."

**.oOo.**

Hanse had the good whiskey uncorked, the Boeri crystal glasses out, and his feet up on the desk. He intended to take _this_ briefing easy and he didn't give a damn who knew it.

Of course, it helped that he was sharing. Quintus wasn't about to say a thing as long as he got his fair share of the bottle. Century old scotch didn't just fall off the back of trucks, after all.

"So— first appearance?"

"Estimated 3010, about the same time as the Dragoons, though we can't be certain. They appear to have established several bases and supply dumps in the Deep Periphery decades before that. Agents around the Dragoons report at least one, Porthos, was a failed Inheritors colony, established by refugees of the First Succession War. That was the supply base that ComStar tried to attack, going by the leaked files."

"Have you confirmed that?"

Quintus sighed. "Not yet, sire. And not for want of trying. ComStar was too well covered, and the Eoans did their job too well. They turned over the body of a known pedophile to our closest legal _attaché_, a wanted man who'd been apparently been spying on them, but none of the pirates survived, and of those who did survive and escape, all seemed to be ComStar."

"Meaning that they vanished into the Sol system, never to be seen again," grunted Hanse. "I know my ancestors had to make political compromises in the name of the Federated Suns, but ComStar was one of their worst, damn it."

"It couldn't be helped, m'lord."

"True, true. Are the Eoans _part_ of the Dragoons?"

"Not that we can tell, sir." Allard scrolled through documents on his pad. "They appear to have a good working relationship with the Dragoons, but given their... _unusual_ political and cultural beliefs, it's unlikely the Dragoons came from the same society."

"Okay. I took a quick look through the 1,000 word briefing paper. You're _certain_ this is what these people believe? It seems outright insane."

Quintus shook his head. "I'm afraid so, sir. While they're secretive about where they come from, they're open and aboveboard with their social and cultural _morés_. They even supply free copies of the closest thing they have to a 'holy book' to any one who asks and encourage their customers to read it. MIIO has over a hundred copies, and we've been pouring over them to find any discrepancies or weaknesses. So far, we haven't been able to discover any. Their beliefs seem to be a strange mixture of ancient Libertarianism and something called Discordianism, something that's not quite a religion and not quite a philosophy, but a little of both."

"I got that much. I'm just having trouble understanding it. They worship _chaos_?"

"Not so much worship it as that they _accept_ it, sire." Quintus began scrolling through one of the books. "If I can- ah. Here it is. From their _Principa Discordia._" He began to quote.

_We look at the world through windows on which have been drawn grids (concepts). Different philosophies use different grids. A culture is a group of people with rather similar grids. Through a window we view chaos, and relate it to the points on our grid, and thereby understand it. The ORDER is in the GRID. That is the Aneristic Principle._

_Western philosophy is traditionally concerned with contrasting one grid with another grid, and amending grids in hopes of finding a perfect one that will account for all reality and will, hence, (say unenlightened westerners) be True. This is illusory; it is what we Erisians call the ANERISTIC ILLUSION. Some grids can be more useful than others, some more beautiful than others, some more pleasant than others, etc., but none can be more True than any other._

_DISORDER is simply unrelated information viewed through some particular grid. But, like "relation", no-relation is a concept. Male, like female, is an idea about sex. To say that male-ness is "absence of female-ness", or vice versa, is a matter of definition and metaphysically arbitrary. The artificial concept of no-relation is the ERISTIC PRINCIPLE._

_The belief that "order is true" and disorder is false or somehow wrong, is the Aneristic Illusion. To say the same of disorder, is the ERISTIC ILLUSION._

_The point is that (little-t) truth is a matter of definition relative to the grid one is using at the moment, and that (capital-T) Truth, metaphysical reality, is irrelevant to grids entirely. Pick a grid, and through it some chaos appears ordered and some appears disordered. Pick another grid, and the same chaos will appear differently ordered and disordered._

_Reality is the original Rorschach._

Quintus set the tablet down. "They seem to look upon the universe as something that's automatically distorted by their own act of looking at it. An everyday version of the Uncertainty Principal, as it were. And for them, it appears to work. How that's _possible_, we don't know yet. But they accept that their 'truth' is just what they've all agreed upon, and that it's no more real than their consensus. And that other people's views are equally valid or invalid, depending - literally - on who's doing the looking, and how they're doing it." He massaged the bridge of his nose. "MIIO's already got three analysts speaking to psychotherapists, and if I could find a therapist with a high enough clearance, I'd join them myself."

"That's why I pay you the obscene salary," chuckled Hanse. "So you can take one for the team. And I don't have to."

Allard directed a half-hearted glare at his ultimate superior. "It would serve you right if I quit," he grumbled. "But knowing you, I'd just be drafted right back to the same position — and with a lower paycheck."

Hanse smirked.

Allard went back to the briefing. "Most important of all is their principal of 'No First Aggression.' They won't attack unless they've been attacked. Of course, their definition of what constitutes an attack can vary, but they're quite open about that. Deliberate trespass is seen as first aggression. Every group that's hired them has had their property clearly marked with simple, easy-to-understand warnings. 'Private Property - Warning, Trespass will be met with Force.' They're very up front about that. And to date, they've kept their word. The few occasions where a locally hired employee of Executive Outcomes has violated this No First Aggression policy, they've been promptly turned over to local law enforcement. Turning that around, every time someone has tried to trespass, they've been met with the required and appropriate level of force and nothing more, be it lethal or not."

"I've noticed that the pirates seem to die a lot around them," Hanse commented dryly.

"Mostly because the pirates refuse to surrender, sir. The Eoans do offer to take prisoners, and they've done so previously. They seem quite disciplined. But they also turn those prisoners over to local law enforcement, and the pirates know that. Which in the Periphery usually means a quick show trial, followed by an equally quick hanging. So they'd rather die fighting than at the end of a noose. Their own choice and not, strictly speaking, the Eoans fault."

"Understandable. And their technology?"

"We already know that they build their own jumpships. In addition, while no one seems to have taken any of their equipment, observed performance, particularly the few times it's been caught on camera, matches and even exceeds that of Star League era ships, mechs and armor." Allard's face pinched up in a sour expression. "And it's not for lack of trying. With the possible exception of the Free Worlds League — and the Periphery, of course — every government of the Inner Sphere has tried to take some of their equipment intact. So far we've failed miserably. Our own attempts have garnered us nothing but scraps that show the Eoan's extensive use of rare metals and little else. The only group who's taken anything intact is ComStar and we're beginning to suspect that their success was orchestrated by the Eoans themselves."

"A trap?"

"More of a _cause célèbre,_ sire. They appear to have deliberately tempted ComStar into stealing what it stole, giving themselves an honest reason - within the restrictions of their own culture - to take action against ComStar."

"If true, neatly done. One might even say it was a trap worthy of a fox."

Quintus carefully refrained from rolling his eyes — and made certain that his Prince knew that.

Hanse put on a more serious expression, set his glass on the desk and steepled his fingers. "So. We have what they've given us, and you've verified some of that. We have what we've gathered on our own, and verified _that._ So what is their game here? Their end goal? Are they a threat to us?"

"From everything we have, it's ComStar that they appear to be directing all their ire towards, my prince. We cannot say for certain _why_, but the main thrust of their actions is obvious. For whatever reason, they view ComStar as their enemy, and they intend to put an end to the organization as promptly as they can."

"Which will leave us where, exactly?"

"They don't seem concerned about technology left on the 'battlefield' as it were, sir. So far, all their behavior leads us to believe that should we attempt to seize the HPG grid _inside our own borders_, they wouldn't care in the slightest."

"And _outside_ of our borders?"

"As long as we don't inflict ourselves upon them or their allies, we seem to be welcome to wage war upon one another as much as we please, sire. We could spend years warring with the Combine or the Confederation, and they'd continue on doing business in the Periphery. Eoan property inside the Inner Sphere would no doubt be fiercely defended by their privately owned military assets, but nothing more than defense."

Hanse refilled both their glasses. "I said it before, but it bears repeating. These people have moved up to the bottom of my top ten 'to-do' list, and they're climbing to the top of it rapidly, Quintus."

"Yes, sir. Your orders?"

"MIIO is to be firm, but respectful. I don't want them to have any reason to harbor grudges against us. Not yet, anyway. Takashi will be doing enough of that for the entire Inner Sphere. It's obvious they're watching us, so they likely expect to be watched in return. No more aggressive missions against their people. Observation only for now. And keep an eye on our own people. I can think of several who are dumb enough to poke a bee hive just to see what happens. The Haseks come to mind. We don't need that." He paused, tapping his finger on the desk. "Put together a list of businesses and individuals who can be trusted to deal fairly with the Eoans — and a list of those who can't. Help the former, hinder the latter. Build us as much good will with them as we can. And for Christ's sake, find out where they're from and how they got here. They're dealing themselves into our affairs, even if it's indirectly. I want to know what they want, why they want it, and what they'll do if they don't get it. The rest can wait until we have more information. Which MIIO had better get for me. Start lighting fires underneath people, Quintus. Now."

"Consider it done, sir."

**.oOo.**

His daughter burst into his office. "Dad, we got a contract offer!" Rhonda was grinning from ear to ear as she slapped a thick file on his desk. To Cranston's amusement, there was a cover letter taped to the outside of the file, signed with Broker's unmistakable hand.

"Ahh, it's so nice to have friends," Snord chuckled, opening the letter first.

_Cranston -_

_Heard you were looking for a contract. (Yes, yes, I have good spies. I should, I pay them enough. By the way, my spymaster also suggests you lay off the saturated fats, they're not good for your heart.) The Taurans are looking to clear the pirates out of the Fifty Star Cluster, and you already know how my people feel about piracy._

_We still abide by our "No first aggression" policy, so unless those idiots in the Cluster attack us first, we can't yet attack them._

_But you can. So here's the contract the Taurans are offering, and we'll match them credit for credit, so you'll be getting double pay. The Taurans want ALL the salvage rights, so EO will cover any equipment damage you suffer, up to full replacement. My surety upon it._

(Cranston checked - sure enough, there was a heavy gold coin in the envelope.)

_I _did_ manage to talk them into allowing you to loot^H^H^H^H grab__^H^H^H^H_ liberate _items of historical significance so long as they aren't items of _Tauran_ historical significance - assuming that the pirates have stolen any. THOSE, the Taurans will want for themselves. A word to the wise is sufficient, eh?_

_I'm sending our scans of the Cluster to you and to the Taurans. Our navigation scans are considerably more accurate than anything the Star League ever had (keep that under your hat, please). It should make jumping into the Cluster much safer. There are three Terra-class worlds inside the Cluster - yes, we know there were only two known on record - and the pirates appear to have settlements on all three of them, going by the neutrino emissions our survey drones picked up. Their co-ordinates are included, along with all the information we have on their defenses, such as they are._

_As a personal aside, I'd suggest you try to avoid ComStar for a while. They've done something that's annoyed us __**very**__ much, and we'll be retaliating. Violently. Given that the same thing is happening inside the Free Worlds League, it's pretty much open season on ComStar's covert operatives. I don't want you and your people getting caught in the cross-fire, as we consider you to be friends of ours._

_So if you're willing to accept the contract (and my personality modeling software is predicting 90% plus that you will, with some minor quibbles about your daughter's safety), I'd like to wish you a safe journey there and good hunting. _

_Have fun, kill many pirates, let us know if you need anything repaired or replaced, and always remember "The Art of War."_

_Your friend,_

_Jared Broker._

Snord opened the main folder, looked through the main points of the contract and zeroed in on the amount the Taurans were offering. Then he mentally doubled it.

Then he tried to fight off the attack of hysterical giggles the numbers induced. He looked up to see a similarly giddy grin on Rhonda's face.

**.oOo.**

Colonel Wolf was once again pressing forward in the endless war against triple-carbon copies, revised after-action reports, and budget lists. He had the distinct impression that he was on the losing side of the battle. _If the Clans are such perfect warriors, why haven't we managed to defeat THIS enemy_, he mused absently, scrawling his signature on yet another authorization form. _You would think if we can kill hundred-ton battlemechs, we could defeat a few damned pieces of paper._ At that moment, his aid interrupted him.

"Colonel, you have a live call, and I'm afraid it's urgent."

"Get their contact information and tell them to call back tomorrow."

"I did, sir. They're calling through to the secure facility, and it's long distance." His aid was practically sweating. "VERY long distance, sir. It's — _them._"

Wolf sat bolt-upright. "_Live?_"

"Yes, sir!"

"Son Of A — don't just stand there! Patch a secure line into my office and do it now! Don't leave them waiting!"

As he expected, when his private screen lit, it was Broker looking back at him. He controlled the grimace that wanted to cross his face. "I take it that this is rather urgent, Jared, otherwise you wouldn't be calling me live from across the Sphere. Live hyperpulse transmission isn't cheap."

"Sadly so, Jaime. Your intelligence department should be getting the news soon, but ComStar, having taken offense to our little file dump, finally acted. We are not yet sure how they got this past us. There was nothing in their communications streams that mentioned this in the slightest."

"What happened?" Jaime was concerned. Over the time he'd met various Kyfhon, he'd realized that to them, facial expressions were like clothing. They were worn if needed, discarded if not. The bland, neutral expression on Jared's face was worrisome. It implied he had far too much on his mind to bother with such minor nuances as deliberately staged emotional displays. Given their artificially amplified minds, that was a matter of some concern.

"Seventeen of their ROM officers who'd had their covers blown, and who knew that their covers were blown and were therefore expendable, proceeded to the nearest public gathering place, be it an arena, shopping area or school, and simply opened fire with their personal weapons. They attempted to kill as many innocent bystanders as they could before they themselves were cut down by local law enforcement. They didn't even try to fight back." Jared's expression hadn't wavered. "That's public information. What isn't public is that every EO office received the same message from ComStar. That those deaths were on our shoulders. That they were the punishment for daring to offend ComStar. Apparently, they felt this was easier than attacking us directly."

A wave of fury surged through Jaime. War was inevitable. The deliberate, calculated murder of innocent people _was not!_ "What are your intentions, and how can we help?"

_Now_ a thin smile crossed Jared's face. "As previously noted, ComStar's communications security has been thoroughly compromised. We _know_ the Rom agents they've set to watch us. We know where they are, we even monitor their health. We would not, after all, want them to die _before_ we are done with them. But we have one small problem. If we act on this information, ComStar will realize that their people have been compromised, will deduce that there is an information leak _somewhere_ in their organization, and they will start looking for it and won't stop until they find it. Given the nature of the situation, it is highly implausible - though not entirely impossible - for them to find it, but their attempts to do so will interfere with our plans. We need a cover, an excuse. Something plausible that the leak can be blamed upon, so that ComStar will find it and stop searching."

"What can we do to assist?"

Broker chuckled, and Jaime instinctively braced himself. "You are, no doubt, aware of the loathsome creatures known in your trade as 'mechbunnies'?"

Jaime quashed the urge to say something obscene about that particular scourge, and merely nodded.

"You know that ROM has surrounded your people with agents in the futile hope of discovering where you came from. With your permission, a few dozen _new_ mechbunnies are about to show up at your main base and throw themselves at some of your mechwarriors, warriors that you've selected."

Wolf began to laugh harshly. "And my people will, quite carelessly, and very obviously, spill some information where those mechbunnies can overhear it."

"Exactly. After which, the 'mechbunnies' will be outed as agents of EO attempting to learn where you came from. You will be very publicly irritated with us, certain of your warriors will receive 'punishment' for their 'carelessness' in handling classified information, and ROM will learn that some of their agents crossed paths with ours, much to their pain."

"Don't you mean to their deaths?" inquired Jaime, curiously.

"No. To their pain. If they'd attacked us, even killed some of us, we'd be satisfied in killing them back, so to speak. That's our culture, our custom, our tradition." Jared's voice suddenly went flat and monotone. "Instead, they chose to open fire on uninvolved innocent civilians. They killed children. In a pathetic attempt to cause us guilt. They need to learn, and that requires pain."

Wolf nodded slowly. "If I'm ever stupid enough to make that error with your people, I hope I've earned enough credit with you for a quick death."

"Don't worry, you have."

It concerned Colonel Wolf all the more that Jared had apparently taken him quite seriously. He made yet another mental note to warn the Warden Clans to never willingly cross these people. Then he bolded that note, italicized it and underlined it. Several times.

As for the Crusaders? If they were stupid enough to choose to take on the Kyfhon, he might - just _might_ - give them one warning. Then he'd call Jared, request a ringside seat for that fight, and maybe ask around to see if they still had popcorn in their culture. With real butter and salt, not that synthetic crap. It just didn't taste the same.

"Well bargained and done, then. Now let's negotiate for the price."

That got an actual, _real_, smile from Jared. "You have learned well, young grasshopper. But have you learned well enough?"

The smile that came back from Jaime echoed his namesake.

"Let's find out."

**.oOo.**

"So these are the Maenads? Why that name?" Jaime cast a quick eye over the files that had sped across the connection after the initial bidding. "They're beautiful enough. But Joshua tells me that physical beauty is cheap among your people."

"Cosmetic bio-sculpting is inexpensive - a side effect of the medical research that prolongs our lives. But it's not the beauty so much as it is the minds behind those beautiful faces. Joshua's told you of my spymaster."

"Yes," snorted Wolf. "And if I thought I could even come _close_ to affording it, I'd try to hire him out from under you to give lessons to my people. Anyone who could orchestrate what you've done to ComStar could run mental circles around WolfNet. But Maenads? The implications worry me."

"They should. When we first began to clear out the pirates in the space _beyond_ the Deep Periphery, we were initially stymied by their _lack_ of technology. It's rather difficult to _find_ a group of raiders if they're living like Bronze Age kings, using their mechs and ships only when their slaves look rebellious or when going on raids. We often needed intelligence from live humans, something we found vaguely annoying."

"I can believe that," snarked Jaime. "Pretty frustrating, I bet."

"It was. But pirates are still human, and with some exceptions here and there, largely male."

"Ow. Good old fashioned seduction, I take it."

"Yes. And it takes a special woman to be willing to do that, particularly under those sort of conditions. Alec, Meg and Tisi volunteered, and Carter reluctantly accepted." Jared's expression didn't change, but there was something about his eyes that told Wolf that the head of EO hadn't been very happy about it either. "They found others who were willing, and that was the formation of the Maenads."

"But why _that_ name?"

"Because there are two types of pirates. Smart ones and dead ones. Often, the _very_ smart ones were smart enough to surrender quickly. We'd exile them, but ..." Broker shrugged. "Our culture restricts what we can do to someone who's surrendered. We may not have laws, but we do have rules, and a smart rules-lawyer can take advantage. However, _offended_ individuals were still entitled to challenge an exiled prisoner over a matter of restitution or death. And sexual molestation is such a matter."

"So they'd go in undercover, spy, and they'd be... _offended_ by the pirates," Jaime trailed off bleakly.

"Yes," nodded Broker. "And afterwards, with justification, they'd live up to their nickname, which eventually became their official name."

"I take it there aren't many living pirates left in the areas you 'control'," Wolf said dryly.

"We don't have any prisons. In Kyfhon space, it's not a growth industry."

"No offense meant, but you people scare me at times."

"None taken. For us, that's actually a compliment. It helps remind us."

"Of what?"

"That the most dangerous form of madness is the conviction that you're sane."

"I'm going to try to not think too deeply about the implications of that. Otherwise I'd be trying to get as far away from you as physically possible." Jaime quickly flipped through the remaining files. "You're sending sixteen Maenads? And sixteen men? For the female mechwarriors, I presume. Sixteen? Odd number..."

Broker grinned. "We tend to think in binary."

"Ah? Oh, base two."

"Indeed," nodded Jared. "I've just informed them that the initial request was approved, and they'll be underway shortly. They'll contact you when they arrive at your current location and request a mechwarrior to approach. Once this is finished, and the leak has been made 'official', we'll round up all the ROM agents inside the Periphery and deal with them. 'No first aggression' is still a concern; however, as they are spies their actions count as trespass, for which they're required to make restitution. That allows our culture to take action."

"That seems a little hair-splitting, but who am I to point fingers?" Wolf paused, then mentally backtracked. "Wait. You said _inside_ of the Periphery. Specifically. What about ROM agents inside the Sphere?"

Broker's grin vanished. "That's up to the Sphere. When the leak takes place, it's going to be a big one. Just as big as the one we just orchestrated. Names and locations will go out to every intelligence agency in the Sphere. Along with addresses of safe houses, planned routes of escape, and any other information that we can make it look as if we'd garnered it from this little affair."

"Damn. That's harsh. You do realize that the ISF will likely kill them out of hand."

"As will SAFE. Such a pity." Jaime was certain that if there had been such a thing as a sarcasm detector in the room, it would have exploded from the overload. "But the ROM agents are, supposedly, adults capable of giving informed consent. If they didn't believe in the mission, they could have refused it. What happens to them as a result is entirely upon their own heads."

Wolf sighed. "It's going to get bloody in the Sphere soon."

Broker arched an eyebrow. "ComStar has only themselves to blame, deny it however they choose." Another file came through the connection, this one blinking with the padlock icon of a passphrased file. "I was going to forward this to you some weeks from now, but given that I needed to make the call anyway, I thought I'd give it to you now. The Maenads will bring you the password."

"What is it?"

"Co-ordinates. You'll recall that I mentioned that my people happen to have a piece of Diamond Shark property on our hands. We know you're scheduled for another trip to Clan space for supplies and an intelligence report to the Grand Council. If you would, we'd appreciate you giving this to the Khan of the Diamond Sharks. It's the location of the star where we'll be leaving the ship we found at the rift." Broker sighed deeply. "And the bodies. 'A debt unpaid is a promise made.'"

Wolf could _hear_ the quotation marks around the phrase. "I know that's important to you, but there's more to it than that. I'm not sure how I know, but I do."

"And you're correct. _That_ information will be hand-carried to you courtesy of Tisiphone. It's that sensitive, Jaime. You'll understand when you see it. Once you read it, you'll curse my name for ever having shown it to you." Somehow Jared's eyes stared _through_ Jaime, and he didn't like that feeling one bit. "But you'll need it for when you face the Khans during your debriefing."

**.oOo.**


End file.
